Scheherazade.

I fear your disapproval,
Wrecked by the names you have called me,
Without saying a word.
Lost to myself and others.
Having become my own fiction.
Righting myself only to fall again.
My sense of humor taken leave.
My wounds reopened.
I seek a fortress, I seek your arms to be a shelter.
Aged in the morning light,
By my love of the night.
I dream my heart beats soundly,
I dream my heart is safe,
I dream my wounds are healed
Without infection.
I dream of beaches warm within the forest,
And other places they told me did not exist.
I dream my life is golden.
I dream I am not broken.
I am become my own cure.
I am afraid not to say that.

I do not care for your politics 
Or dirty tricks
Or pick-up sticks.
Assumptions made as to the ways I’d acquiesced.
Oh dear love you never could have guessed,
The pounding that there was, and the despair, 
Don’t worry darling, I know life’s not fair.  
You talk of truth, you talk of mysteries,
You talk of pestilence and the dis ease,
while every day you brought me to my knees. 
Tell you, oh my darling, what I want?
Tell me, darling dear, what have you got? 
I dream I am still lithe.
I do not eat.
I dream that you are falling at my feet.
I seek to make myself complete again,
I seek to write the words that come to me,
In whatever way or form that that may be, 
And have you love me ever as I am. 
I dream that you are near to hold my hand,
in every day, when the earth shatters ‘neath my shoes,
I fear that you will find another muse. 


Categories: Poetry, prose, writing

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