White pillows at night descend.
Pain sounds its celestial sorcery;
absent silence.
Breasts,
glass,
wind,
the mirage that returns
because there’s twilight.
I don’t cry
because there’s no fire,
no grief masturbation,
no dilation to raise my second thought,
neither hanged nor dead dog,
neither bombastic, nor Jesus, nor father, nor virgin.
But I don’t think much about the unreality of things
they’re just dust shared in nexus.
Death for a woman is transparent
it’s male and bandaged.
Someday we’ll greet all our fans with gestures
superstitious and pale.
Dreams are for those who sing with words in color
The grief in your piece is palatable. Each day, brings something unknown before…
But I don’t think much about the unreality of things
they’re just dust shared in nexus.
One should not be dragged down by insignificant episodes, true enough Pamelita!
Hank
The fire to cry…when we lose that we truly are in dark days..numb..burying and bandaging ourselves before someone gets there first…and yet there is fire in your poem…I find that courageous..and seeringly honest..best wishes to you
I am so sad and I am so sorry for not visiting.