markbousfield

EPICERE
Take me to the place
where you do the things you do to men.

True to form,
this time more tangled than the last.

Yet I'm still dampening in the breakers,
brushing each stone
to keep me busy here by the shore.

It was there I sat all silver eared
letting you talk over me,

in the mist of this fear I recognised these ghosts as my friends,
with flailing limbs they quietly thwapped away the dark hood of night.

I goaded you to see if we meant anything,
to see if the pretense of ambition swelled you to sainthood,

the same struggle of the small hearted sparrow
as her weaknesses finally gave in,
the rattling too of your knees as your feet fail
and you fall to the ground,
your perfect pockets rifled by dignified thieves
who don't recognise your face,
or more so,
don't care for it.

Unravelled,
the trick,
penful purposes trained to gauge our defences,
slick memorial clicks of loving hearts
sliding to new obsessions,
grinding the machine's parts until the clean
doesn't rub off.