Have you ever touched something cold? I mean cold, not as ice, but as bitter as oblivion?
Have you ever touched something, something as cold as the universe leaking nightfall, frigid as an unopened hand frosted with shame?
Our numbness embarks upon this, our private voyage traversing over a glacial truth buried under stars, beneath our frostbitten souls and veined throbbing fetching bones for the scabby mongrels of cosmic machinery.
There’s no flight, no escape from such famished consent, if there were, the final thing we’d touch would be warm.
Have you ever touched something, something as cold as the universe leaking nightfall, frigid as an unopened hand frosted with shame?
Our numbness embarks upon this, our private voyage traversing over a glacial truth buried under stars, beneath our frostbitten souls and veined throbbing fetching bones for the scabby mongrels of cosmic machinery.
There’s no flight, no escape from such famished consent, if there were, the final thing we’d touch would be warm.
© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman
Love your September poems, TPM. The artwork by Bondarowicz (a fellow Pole!) is pretty awesome, too. The collection would make a nice book.
ReplyDeleteElizabeth,
ReplyDeleteThank you. You are most kind.
Yes. Marcin and I have briefly talked about a book of September Songs and it seems to be a fairly popular idea around these parts. :>)