Molten Poetry

Let it burn.

Long days past,
a golden hue
settles fast
upon the pictures
of youth.

Remembered glimpses,
oft dismembered
and reassembled
with stitches.

A Mary Shelley view
of those disparate
bits and pieces
that I’ve forced
together, in some
semblance of meaning,
to grant me peace
from the monster
of truth.

In my mind,
(perhaps I’m dead, too)
I caress your cheek,
soon to learn,
the softest skin
belongs to those
ghosts and memories,
sewn within
the gut-stitched
simulacrum

of you.


©️ 2018.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: