Beloved, a clot of old youth, through her living death and breathing

Beloved, a clot of old youth, through her living death and breathing,
eternal repeater, she looked at the center of the edge of fate, her life
revived... the school of death, of destiny, professors with futures,
subjects of ignoring, postlude, her pleasures serious and joking,
disobedient then, from him and her, dressed, men of stones, sedentary,
joys and divorces, abstract stains, carefully sewn, all
cheered up, night upon lighting, if you don't want, you don't feel and curse,
be silent, to enter your mind, for it's December, it's... autumn
of Monday, cry of a peasant woman, young, who ignores her
angel, her soul present and real, of a man, a drought,
beautiful lack of influence, a healthy disease of wisdom.
Filled with my young, useless, clumsy thoughts, I am
the passer-by, the darkness, the rejected joy, easily lost,
attracted by a virtue, found even by my first smile...
In me grows an oldness so young it births old children,
I am a presence so absent I fill my voids with fullness.
You, my ugly beloved,
you are my sweetest torture without pain,
my coldest love, hot as the ice that burns,
the metal flower that blooms through withering,
your present absence makes me exist through disappearance,
you are the nothing from everything that becomes everything from nothing without something,
a birth so dead it kills lives born in you,
the bitter sweet honey that poisons me through healing...
you are my harshest caress with gentleness and cruelty,
my first last separation from the meeting that separates us,
my warmest love, cold as the fire frozen in flames...
I am the most from the little I have ever been in absence,
your dark light illuminates me with its white and deep darkness.
Copyright © | Year Posted 2025

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