her eyes, they are
beautiful and fragile living coals
hideous with pity, scorn, and lust
silent witnesses to the whispered black children
of dark corners and everything-he-is-not (but could be)
this devil,
only she knows,
only she sees, [only she loves,]
second hearts and worlds begat from choices
made and un-made
by lonely patchwork dolls
each fragment of cloth woven with blood and water,
frustration, disappointment and glory
only she knows,
only she sees,
that this is what we are:
ideas made flesh.
Comments
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damn her and her vicious eyes.
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Ideas made flesh.
Sometimes we're lack of ideas, too. Just flesh. Sad, isn't it, but always loved by someone. Something. Even sadness leaks some optimism at times.
(I've been traveling, myself. Hence the lack of attention to your poetry. I'm back, though, and this was a nice read to get me into the swing of things.)
Well done, poet. I'll be back of course.
Two clappy fools only just because you used 'blood'
I hate that word in poetry. It would be 2 and a half, but I'm afraid even the great world of Allpoetry has limits.
-Reni
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Again, I love it, you have got to be one of my favorite poets ever, such interesting and thought invoking work...I love your mind.
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Ideas made flesh...interesting
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