A World I Have Never Seen
I have walked the steps of a fool
And breathed the breath of a liar.
I have ignored intuition
And given in to desire.
My mind has dried up
To a drought of the fertile,
And intimate thought
Has lost its sweet sparkle.
I weep as I fade
And mourn my heart as it’s reaved.
My veins fill with marble
And blood flows down my sleeve.
I am but a shell
Of life as it should be,
And I watch as it flourishes
In laughter around me.
My mouth will curl up
In a crude imitation
And the stone starts to break,
But I am the mason.
Caulk drips from my eyes
To search for the cracks,
But it hardens to prepare
For the foreseen axe
That I am sure will strike
When I least expect,
But the cracks start to widen
As I begin to defect.
Now, as I stand here,
Brittle and lonely,
I can no longer move,
So I drift away slowly
Benjamin
You call me lucky.
You whisper it in every green exchange, and
I see your ugly, tight-lipped smile that makes me
want to rip your ancient face to shreds.
But my green-stained fingers can’t tear you.
Every one of my digits is slick with your filth, and
I’m hooked on that blue line of validity that
I inhale for the sweet scent of success.
You know as well I do that the silver utensil in my throat is stuck.
This cursed spoon scoops away my soul, and
in its place sits a man whose craving for green has made him blue.
The name on the handle is my own, but
no amount of polish can remove those letters.
The shackles that chain me are paper, but
they do not rip as I drag them behind me.
You follow me with your green hands outstretched,
reaching to shove the spoon so deep down that it kills me.
I’ve realized that it’s hard to scream when you’re choking,
but I use my last breath to curse your name.
Woven Grief
If you look in any old place,
you may spot a tapestry.
But look past the wool, silk, or lace,
and think of its history.
The bearer before, just maybe a noble,
was restless to know if he’d be a father.
He was not allowed in, of that she was vocal,
and he knew, as a man, that he’d just be a bother.
So he did what he could,
and he gathered his tapestries,
but his heart ached for fatherhood,
while he heard his wife’s agonies.
The nurses took what he gave
and hung them with care
to help his wife brave
through her pain with a flair.
She could focus on blues
and think of the clouds,
or the soft, emerald views
as a nurse prepares shrouds.
Concern overpowered him
at an especially loud cry,
so he reached for the door’s rim
to then peek inside.
His tapestries all looked at him
from their positions by windows,
and their colors were dim,
as he was stuck there, in limbo.
His first thought was that of war,
a diabolical slaughter,
and with a heart sore,
gone were his hopes of a daughter.
Colorful wife reduced to red,
lay still in her tomb,
of a ripped, bloody bed
that mirrored her womb.
The nurse wouldn’t look at him,
but he read faces well,
and this story was grim
and not a good one to tell.
He wailed as hands grabbed at the tapestries
that he had now grown to hate,
for all he saw was mortality
and his wife’s bloody fate.
As they fell to the floor,
he followed in kind,
knees deep in the gore,
but he did not mind.
The nurse stepped around him,
for there was nothing to say,
as she saw that this drowned him,
so she left through the doorway.
Now if you look in any old place
and you spot a tapestry,
look past the wool, silk, or lace
and think of its history.
Does the title suit the poem?
Is the story comprehensive?