Spilled: Poems

The Mite

The wind was favorable, my soul, untameable,

immaculate, insensitive as a stone -

where I put my foot, I conquered

when I conquered, I constructed

Until I found love, she was a beautiful dove,

a woman, a gemstone -

where she came, she squandered

when she squandered, she abducted

In shallow seas I sailed, and in the sacred pillow I leaked,

questing a land for my mind to roam -

there I was a knight, and alone in guard

amen I prayed, just to be scarred

I never touched the mud, which my vessel took as blood,

flesh, a pleasurable moan -

"Beware" they told me,

"Amends could stone thee"

Until she pushed me overboard, she had a sword,

like Satan from the sky, I fell off -

"Beware" they didn't say,

"We are ghosts and we don't want you to stay"

These eye sockets, before weren't loosened and rotten,

once had bright pearls, dark as coal -

but my mind was the mite's nest,

who while under the sacred pillow, laid her eggs

Now I don't see a rounded bosom, but a sharp fulcrum,

on its left lust, on its right three thorns -

sadly, my vessel remains haunted,

and my heart, daunted.