Bill Turnbull | + Follow Poet |
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You've Killed Me Again

I've lived and died for you a hundred times over-
slain in violence,
rebirthed in desire,
only to be cut down yet again.

You've killed me with sharpened sword
on Highland hilltop
underneath a shroud of fog to hide your guilt.

You destroyed me in lush fields of wheat
in a Spanish valley,
the sun burning blisters into my skin,
while you crushed me with your disdain.

I came to you on a shining vessel,
full mast,
over a blue-green sea,
only to be struck down by your winds of discontent,
smashing my constitution upon rocks of misery, drowned in waters of failure.

I once floated upon the breeze
in the form of a butterfly
and landed upon your flower
with your pistil my purpose,
just to see you wilt and shrivel at my very touch. With no home to protect me,
I was devoured by a beak of loneliness, regurgitated,
and consumed by its insatiable young.

I sang to you from a courtyard of white,
throwing stones at your castle window,
then witnessing your disgust at my very presence,
which caused my throat to spasm,
silencing my voice.
I died in the weight of the words not spoken, buried in the verbiage of your disaffection.

Yet, here I am again-
a bouquet of roses in one arm
and seeds with which to plant a tree of hope in the other.
Your resentment bears thorns,
and my arm bleeds for you.
The ground is barren and resisting,
thus, I diminish,
the wind whisking away the dust remains of my intentions.

Nevertheless, I shall return.

BLT

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