poetry for the poetic: 5

XX

there is an exception
to what they call brokenness;
a sweet, tingling, hopeless vignette
of all the white that had covered the gloom
in the bitter, aching, inimical anecdote
of mourning in mornings coldly azure;

shriveling bliss from this skin you burned
although the loathe was there, thereafter not
like forbidden anaphoras echoing again
and again and again –you
anchored between these pages of solitary
is a withering bloom left forgotten
and though the rhymes are never gathered
while the gods are all but jealous
with the scar engraved under this skin;
consumed, dissembled, buried by–

you

the constant exception
to what i call brokenness.