An Advent of Sense

the sounds my brain makes underworld cacophony the clanging of brass bells and angry pipes on tunnel walls. to implore its quiet is to bring the beast from out its lair dragging chains on gravel road spitting razor phrase:                                           You could be so much better. But how uncaring,                how callous,                        how hateful to treat one's                                                own house. I've forgotten how to soothe.

I am full in the way of a dewdrop how she threatens to fling from her perch no contending with time who only will stop long enough for the briefest of search.

For every effort, it seems to me, there is another to keep it in line. As if to remind, you're not stronger than I, no more or less divine. Forces surge, passions ebb, delights swing to and fro'. Lateral decisions turn yeses into no's. A burning orb, we bumbling folk who try to build from connection but in our excite we burst the yolk and explode in different directions. Does the ivy not climb seeking sun, secret scions reaching new heights? His brother, the vine, hangs low from his home and covers his head until night.

I hold me up so clean and strong but let your touch lacerate me wounds from my insides out. A single pitch from high strung wire reverberate this plucked nerve entire symphonies bleeding from the site I've learned to tone it down. And I want it this burlap sack over my head breath control that I used to call affection. Deflate/inhale me until I am a slippery pile of veins more strings for you to play. That is what muses do, correct? Wrestle your demons offer our necks for the art of it. I wanted it a blade of sound to cut through the weight of what was not between us. My body is afraid of speaking.