PHOENIX
spirit body
broken,
gathering up limbs
collected for a stretcher
he’s cutting, again.
shadow sky dips into midnight;
snail clouds creep along
straight razor moonbeams
not like a nightmare,
for nightmares shift quickly
and unconsciousness' dies in the waking.
There are few pains as sickly,
As lost love spoken thickly
ease along,
press into and face your pain,
but lean not, oh outer mind, to your own understanding.
travel through every drawn & quartered layer
of affection vanished.
it’s a sacred space where slowness heals just fast enough
to create new skin.
~new skin~
fresh
for the next cut.
moving, sliding, inching along, just keep moving, surviving.
how many more times will you watch this full moon rising?
it all seems so limitless, so fruitless.
this seems the strangest life one can ever know,
this surviving surviving.
only when I realize I am both snail and blade,
my aloneness plummets like honest angels to the earth,
the high blade bathes a blood red moon.
~the fall murders my pain~
finally, I am
poet.
by Timothy Cameron, 2007, rewritten new ending early 2010. © All rights reserved