aexyius

What meter has our tongue fallen upon
Like a darkened word, measured out in
Black clouds and spoken in thunder?
We were not meant to be lovers,
But each others mannequins,
Posing in public with garish costumes
And crenulated joints, agreeing with
Physique to the very end.

Growth is bitter,
Don’t let anyone tell you
It is magical, for they are just
Beginning and haven’t felt the
Pain that comes when your shins
Begin to ache from trying to run
Away from suffering.

Measure yourself against the door,
Not another person’s height,
And let your words fall like plum
Rain across the acres of path,
Overgrown but for the internal map
That carries us through thickets
And heather like lovers who
Carry themselves against their will.