truth

“Romeo: I dreamt a dream tonight.
Mercutio: And so did I.
Romeo: Well, what was yours?
Mercutio: That dreamers often lie.”
-Romeo and Juliet

I dreamed of her, fire-haired and beautiful: full of eternal life.
Immortality is finite, of course.

“There is a child sleeping near his twin
The pictures go wild in a rush of wind” -Jeff Buckley

My soul is tattooed with her flesh, and it’s become incorrigible. I
can’t help the twisting myriad in my mind; my daemon throttles
me down screaming,”she was better than you…” … I can’t help
the welling jealousy, can I? But I slip into a sleep that is plagued
by a girl who turns her fiery face toward the sea, dreaming of
Sammy, dreaming of farther away than I can see, but not
dreaming of me… not dreaming of me, though my soul is
tattooed with her
skin.

My flesh, likewise, is illustrated by his words. Filled with the
imperceptible pricks of sadness. My words come as they sound
to me, and when I write I reverse the original sin (though they
come to me saying “but baby, look at Genesis 3:1″); that which I
say sews my shadow back to my body, because I write as I know
the words to come, and not as they should be. Their intentions
are lost in his hair on my pillow; his arms with thin veins pulsing
frantically beneath the skin…

“My heart under your foot, sister to a stone.” -Sylvia Plath

They’re all weaving a tapestry on the pale side of my arms. A
tapestry of eternal life, finite and beautiful. Crumbling already,
falling apart with the reversal of reality. My faeries too are
crumbling as though exposed to harsh acids; all of this despite
the molecular composition of the atmosphere, which remains
the same. The posturing of youth gives way to a disintegrating
pile of flesh, and bones.

I am not a poet. I am the reverser of the original sin, though I
don’t believe in Adam and Eve and the snake: at least I don’t
believe their supposed sin.

Mortality is infinite, the decomposing composers run through
everything; it is the immortality that allows itself to be finite. It is
myself that allow words to be. The carrion of her nature coerces
me, and soon I will be born away.

“Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices,
That if I then had wak’d after long sleep
Will make me sleep again: and then in dreaming
The clouds methought would open and show riches
Ready to drop upon me; that, when I wak’d
I cried to dream again.”
-Caliban, The Tempest