Speak To Me Again
by Lisboa Miraflores
i am
my own immortal
death rises in plumes before me, purple
smoke
clouds
suffocate, inhale and breathe
condemned. i rise
to the
ledge and see below, to the fathoms
that circle
under.
nine tears are
on my arms, i have
felt them fall.
swim
in the tides, currents that
move
before the movement
and confine
victims.
i want to
fly.
miles sink into the earth,
brown
black grass, thick, sticky.
blood,
the hanged one
noose
dangle limp above, so high. soar and
...
birdlike.
my feet hurt and i am
standing.
sleep, i am
tired, the bones weaken before the mind
rest comes eternal
unbidden
the
center stirs
cold and faceless.
my window is open.
the breeze
inhabits, the door lost and my walls are too white
virgin pure.
dirt,
dust, my toes crack and break lodged
in mud.
i stare
below, at a
voice too aged and buried
beneath corpses
for faces. whisper, i am
standing.
the glass is gone, night outside my room i
see
water
churns. i want to fly and fall
unhesitating against the sun,
warmth too bright
and cold
for life. metal in my mouth, the slivers
combine.
i romanced my knees, some
are born to be
lonely.
i
stand, wind is gone
the ledge widens without me
deep chasm opening larger
and larger than the surface
of a suspect's face.
i
fall.
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