Empty that box.
(Yes, take a tiny scrub brush to the corners, even,
every particle of want and whim and pleasure
Is there love in there? Or only
lust? A favored friend you thought
It’s an ocean of siren hum.
It’s a persistent itch.
It’s a switch you can’t turn off.
Status report: we are drowning
like moths to Icarus flame,
lamenting our wax
It’s a siren
(the noisy ambulatory kind that says
yikes, trouble’s coming. Trouble’s already
happened. Trouble’s on its way at a speed
you cannot deal with, fight, or change).
Call your next of kin. There is no tomorrow.
Can’t you smell the absinthe? The
need? The seeded things that make
the heart grow fonder,
Sugar-laced lips. Tiny strings. Lines
in sand even the wisest cross
-cross). Lost things that don’t belong
to you, but you will keep them, anyway.
Case in point: this poem.
Don’t stop. Won’t stop. Can’t stop. Stop
assuming you are ever going back. This box
is your home, now. Your shell. Your hell.
Paint a picture of yourself
in disappearing ink. Lady Soul, do you smudge
I’ve got secrets, too. A ball of confusion. A Calypso
heart. A devil on my left shoulder
Forgive me, Father, for
Poetic Asides April PAD Challenge, day 18. This is the one with all the prompts.