I was seven or so in a past life; and
That is when my mind decided to bury you.
It buried you in a cauldron of entrails,
Along with a piece of my Heart—That
It buried you in a cauldron of entrails,
Along with a piece of my Heart—That
Was the only way the rest of it would ever work.
Even though the pictures that I
Never had of you,
Remind me through and through.
Their extended absence creates all the more clarity.
And they say a picture is worth a thousand words-
Well, Lack of one creates so many more.
And terseness of time
Promotes spurious similes—that is, illegitimate images—
Buried within the section of my soul that twinges tirelessly
When it realizes,
At that quiet time
At ending of every day, however late that might be,
That my heart never healed…
And for what -- your freedom?—I am sure, it was really all for Nothing.
Even though the pictures that I
Never had of you,
Remind me through and through.
Their extended absence creates all the more clarity.
And they say a picture is worth a thousand words-
Well, Lack of one creates so many more.
And terseness of time
Promotes spurious similes—that is, illegitimate images—
Buried within the section of my soul that twinges tirelessly
When it realizes,
At that quiet time
At ending of every day, however late that might be,
That my heart never healed…
And for what -- your freedom?—I am sure, it was really all for Nothing.
