Poem: The gift of Rupture

The old covenant brings a new decay,

Soft wounds that sing like children –

Like mirrors,

Reflecting an innocence you longed to lose.

 

Things remain lost,

Or at least

Hidden:

Their slim features descending upon the world,

Slowly bringing it into focus,

Bringing it to bear on the matter at hand.

It is within reach, although

It is nothing more than a mirage,

An empty casket of murmuring

 

Life;

Life yet to be lived,

Given freely and

Abandoned.

 

It grows and conceals the monstrosity

Neatly packaged,

Whirring like death –

Engine of imagination.

 

Let it break.

Let its seams tear, let them give

The gift of rupture.

It falls apart

Like the structure of a face, or

The torn pages of transcripted love

Scattered like ashes and

Promising nothing but hope.