I Am After All Human
I shave my own hair.
I cut it and remember
My own private holocaust.
Those things the imagination plays with.
Little toys of horror,
lingering in that skull I clean.
The blade runs close to the flesh
and control of it is mercy.
Anna had a beating heart,
going for a cyanide shower.
Mine is built like a furnace with bricks.
Cold hard brick that can withstand
the heat of hell.
Poetry affords me my temporal descent
into tenderness.
Ah,feelings,vulnerability,flesh,
blood dripping from my scalp.
I am crying tonight over a Rilke poem.
My wife also cries with me.
I am after all human.
Copyright © Martin Lochner | Year Posted 2014
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