I miss fingerlake coffee cups and acupuncture
The never-ending autumn's with fingers intertwined
And singing hymns for Hera on high
The cold, quiet certainty of my existence
Of the life in the ground beneath my feet and the grass on my skin
The window-maker branches above my head and the snakes coiled in the grove
It's laid to waste among blight and beetles
And the cold afternoons bled into hot, cruel mornings
The smell of mold has haunted my dreams
Ensuring that I remember that I am mortal again
So I cry to you again, falling at your feet endlessly
And I watch your mouth fade into stone
What am I, when beauty no longer outweighs bloodshed?
And what are you, when you refuse my respite?
I have stared into that abyss at your command
But once it stared back, I am tainted,
And I feel the infection of our distance growing
I am left with barren birch trees and burnt grounds
YOU ARE READING
Drinking Eridanus
PoetryThis is a new collection of poems. Themes include depression, death, grief, trauma and mental illness. Read at your own discretion. Thank you!
