You don’t think in a conscious way that it could never happen, because even that would mean to allow that it could, when it is, in fact, the unthinkable. But the world will always think otherwise, or would if it could. And so your heart is torn to pieces. Not into neat, square pieces like paper creased and ripped along the sharp edge of the kitchen table of your one and present life. Like the pound of flesh that it is, ragged, an urgent beating thing. If you could, you would press it, warm and sticky, against the white walls of power, making red-stained valentines.
- 87,990 hits
Tag Cloud of Limingaars poetica Audio Poem autumn beauty bird birds Buddhism cat clouds cold crow crows death depression desire dogs dream dreams fall fire flash fiction grief haiku haikus heart home kiss life light loneliness lost love love love poem lovers lust moon morning naked nature night nude ocean poem poema poet poetry poets Post by Voice rain Ray Sharp river sadness sex short poem short story skin sky sleep snow song sonnet spring stars star tattoos summer sun sunset tanka tattoo tattoos of stars time trees water wind winter
Copyright Notice© Ray Sharp and Bard of Liminga, 2008 to Present. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without written permission of the author and web site owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ray Sharp, Bard of Liminga and raysharp.wordpress. com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.