The heart beats; the beats hold rhythm
And that rhythm holds the center
Like a lead actor in the frame—
And the action rises and falls and rises again all around.
The heart makes a sound, but she doesn’t hear it,
Because hers beats too—faster than this heart and the world around her moves too fast at times
And things prickle and disturb the sensitive
Outter shell and the soft insides that are prone
To the spiky world that never stops moving;
That never stops growing and dying and growing again.
The spiky world that catalyzes the bother
To her—the bother that pulls her away
From hearing my heart beat and pulls her away
From feeling hers—thumping away and trying
To slow her down just enough so she could enjoy
The blood red rhythms that thump and sear
Toward her and for her while she’s here.
Odd separation within this small, warped, two-room cubby hole
Of walls cluttered with who I am
And shelves packed with who I admire and
Cluttered with bags of clothes and lotion bottles
And jewelry in a tackle box.
Odd silence as I listen to the Count and the Duke
And drink cheap champagne and write and
She flips aimlessly through books she bought to read
But will probably never find time to finish.
There is nothing except passive aggressive,
Dull, and slightly violent undertones of
Odd separation at three feet distance.
Squirrels and field mice and young, red blooded vegetable eaters
Or horses, steeds, colts, dogs, wolves, lions, cats
Fountains or towers being our daily centers—
Holding us like gravity to our responsibilities
But our duties are nothing
To our animals and what those animals want
We both bleed and sweat and cry and want
And visceral outweighs the ought
And blood outweighs all prizes
And honest sweat, born of cavernous depths of urgent desires—
It outweighs all fervent toil and duty.
snowghoul
turnnoffyourmind
blakekathryn
titsay
tangentwithtanner
kianamaiart
discoholicmusic
dailybridgerton
prguitarman
theartofmadeline
