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Do we blame Eurydice for being swallowed by the underworld? It was never her choice, but her curse…

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If only you were Orpheus

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you chose etched pages instead of oxygen

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read me softly, gently, bitterness never kisses your consciousness from my lips

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I’m tired of your twisted words,

your denials in which you call blame when you detest the experience of my words, perceived

Still yet, you act like you never took my hand guiding me into a darkened forest with a blindfold on, telling me “It’s okay you’re safe here, never will I bring you harm like them”, expressing your denial and desire in ways you know I will decipher, breadcrumbing the path with your eye contact, leaving you innocent, even when saying it plainly; offering me ways in which you wanted me to be your salvation, giving me the illusion, the delusions - of choice, whilst giving yourself grace, as if those seeds weren’t planted so purely, so plainly within the naked eye…

You played me safely, softly

Even though you know you’d beckon your own self for the thoughts

Never mind beckoning me for if I danced in directness

Because you knew I was safe

Because you knew I was an option

Because you knew I’d always protect you

Because you know that you could retire your heart within my arms within a seconds mention

But don’t worry, darling

I’m not one to threaten

the feeling of being

beckoned

never

A kick, skip and a slither of a slight mention

A new conflict, the same lesson

Forever you become a beacon

Guiding lost ships back to your dead, end

fleshy at your edges in despair as you run the cycle of your yearly errands, preparing me for another drought, scorning me for when the waters run

but I’m drying up, salt tastes sweet here

…but I don’t want to let go,

you’re my only yearning

within a sea of souls begging for a mention

a touch of attention

but I know I wouldn’t be able to offer, to give myself, whole

they all know of Emma and Dexters shared soul

they all know I’m digging my heart an even deeper hole

just promise me you won’t pity my hollowed soul

once I finally let it go be consoled…

no

no,

no

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I worry,

daily, your waters run within my spirits

weekly, my love in adoration

is revealed for oxygen shared between many

in rooms and in walls you might never see,

words you might never hear,

declarations unyielding for sacred expression…

many will understand unknowingly

a timeless face I’ll forever yearn for

strangers might yearn too

a selfless hope for salvation

for a soul not mine

twisted in sorrow in discontent

I fear the mirror

that reflects

my speculation

I fear the dimensions in which whom

my inclinations

are not self - actualised

I fear my every thought

be mistaken

Have my inhibitions been unfounded?

Has my heart been injudicious?

I’ll whisper my sins and proclamations

To a symbol which drenches us in

safety, forgiveness, salvation

I’ll beg the waters to signify our strength,

the wolves to feast

on our sweet sweet bones

when soils sing

that of our wholeness

in death or due part,

I become I

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This year, every day since St. Swithens Day, it has rained in Scotland. Old Wives Tales ring truer than the taste his truth left in mine.

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well,

you know where your unforgotten

sanctuary lays

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Interlinked intertwined for all time

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I’m tired of missing you

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I’ve met someone.

It seems the

absence of two thorns

has now grown

from waiting

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I couldn’t respond and you know why

Vincent Van Gogh

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cherried vines

the sweetest taste is waiting

like I wait for spring

or Octobers frost

our desire ferments

like leaves photosynthesising

into a prophesied mess

like devotion to the undreamt

I’m toasting in the comfort of your desire,

oh desire

delicate desire from the ashes of disaster

my form blanketed by your yellow vines

Oh

the souls words

twisting into

physical matter

will my bubbles settle on you?

like the dew drops reflecting blue

seas of memories

I drink only from your petals

you are the architect of my hearts

ecosystem

a botanical metamorphosis

a bacchanalian symphony 


like a decanted plant

I am moulded from you

how we dance

between the

blood red and velvet

oh, how they’re perfectly paired

like a double dare

or a dead rose

or how the wind through the trees

is like the mother natures

hairs standing

In goosebumps

as your breath lingers near my cheek

crisp trepidation

drenching me once again

and they say true love gets boring

but I’ll never tire of you

there’s over decade

of loving and desiring you

eternally

trapped within your hues 


yet this cage is open

and the robin chose your view

I want to bare all fruits

and consequences with you

to tell the truth

my eternal loop

Would be laced in you

A sequence retraced

Cursive & underlined

a love forever fertile

and combined

and

embraced

tell me

unreliable narrator of the heart

will you make a truth of me?

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Is love not

who stares me in the face?

who bleeds softly beside me;

beckoning my rejections,

Is this love?

for, love must

be

for those who choose to follow

a heart torn like mine

with a consistency that sticks,

never benign

Love must be,

A defining choice

An action

Bravery, justice, longing.

I ask,

For, my heart melts on false disciples

Who want not, to love me

yet, to dissolve me of my right

to be the one who is followed

to be the one who

is

loved

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Fydoror Dostoevsky // Clarice Lispector

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Andrea Gibson, Lord of the Butterflies