It is as ardent as a ruby
And nonpareil as a gold,
Decked with keloids like pearls
It is a pure treasure trove,
Of bloodstained esteem to behold.
It is as byzantine as an art,
Spilling notions of forgotten seasons,
Frescoing the final caged tumultuous echoes,
That had once ripped and rushed
From this heart within.
What is it?
It is nothing but the pains and pleasures
Of that blood clotted scar
On the pinkened flesh of mine
Tasting peace and making me remind
Of those historic embalmment
Of my conquests and of vanquished released.
I am just drifted through
And addicted by the beauty
In my broken places
Across, beyond and beneath.
Temptation, leaky parts
The erratic behavior of
Industrial, copper hearts
Kept in the dark , despairing,
The dysfunctional silence
pumps through the grid,
Anonymous, incomplete
Too vast to forbid and
Ambiguous too. Herders,
Hurricane force baiters
Consolidate the prize,
Surround it with walls,
Aggregation, spiritual
Splinters burned for heat
and the wrapped nutrition
consumed under close
medical supervision,
embalmment, drip by drip
boredom, idle playrooms,
innovations, round trip
exploitations, the outer
wall get steeper and
against our good nature,
I’ll be jumping soon.
I am a suitor sneaking upon her
or perhaps a light breeze upon her shoulder
exasperation or is it disappointment parts her lips,
simple indifference, unfulfilled hope?
turban undisturbed,
in careful turn from light
would be I the target of her stare,
the reason for embalmment leap
to me, to sit
on this Mauritshus bench.
©Kathryn McLoughlin Collins
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