Bodies that are.

There are crowded cities that are lonely,
Filled with bodies that do not make a sound.
Live cemeteries walking on cemented streets.
Our graves are filled to capacity, but the heart is absent.
The heart has been resounded to the pitch of nowhere
And is lost on this body.
Lost because the root of love is darkness.
so we are born into darkness and so we depart-
An organic implosion: we die in ourselves.
We die until the spirit is severed from the body
And shucked from life like a gnarly oyster
And we become the desperate shell
Of the meaty insides, long since gone.
I have become a fastidious cadaver,
Living in a city where the florescent signs
Hiss with more brilliance than any of my attempts at loving you.
It is this fact that sews this departed shut
Neat little incisions along the rib cage.
A scalpel in the hands of a rogue
Would you place yourself in my care,
If you knew I was incapable of ever being substantial?
Of ever living again?


I am laid to rest, my tomb setting sail,
Up purple rivers, through bruised currents
Through your mind-I head for swollen shores,
With sails that choke on the winds of longing
And the eternal silence of finality
Oh to be lost at sea.
&become loved via memories.
And my faults are forgiven
By He, who I wanted to love,
But could not reach-
& maybe you will be there,
Kissing my still skin, trying to reach me-
When I have already gone.
but this body is lonely, a heart that does not make a sound.
And since there is not sound,
All love speaks of silence.
And falls on my dead ears.
While the black cloaks of nevermore,
Ore me deeper into the waters of possibilities lost.