In these hours, I try to make quiet
Moments to stopper this pain, and
Imagine what would have become
Of me had all my muses before the
Final one kept their promises, and I
Mine to them, and not broken them
Before I discarded mine.
All those contortions of body and truth,
All that blood, those blind mornings
When breathing was difficult because joy
Was so immense, those future plans of
Farms and fields and families, of huge
Houses in central London, or on outcrops
Off the Scottish coast, those pledges of
Carefree lives, foundered on naked skin,
Desertion, and reality, like they all do.
Look carefully below the surface of any
Perfect life, and you’ll find scar tissue,
Scabs, open wounds, and emptiness,
And a craving for promises kept.
R 10/11/2023 17:31