The Bleed

When, in mute wonder

of it, in the night, in awe,

I dress that goddess

who is my lonesome Soul

crying to join everything

as though it were all

one

and the same;

and there is a terse magic,

a fine prism in the palm

that showers answers upon these walls

for us to dance,

in waltz for solitude, and on; and one.

 

And when, in having told

you

of this intensity

brought on by the songs like

slow and tender flames

who hug the outskirts of a heart

and threaten to consume

what is once, no more: I,

paralyzed by the beauty

that I see—I fail to show you

what I’d just glimpsed in a flare

of rapture, and then back

like the child found naked in woods

and brought back and chained to a desk

and from whom a proof

is demanded—a proof! or tyranny.

05/15/2016

West Vancouver

after Bleed Confusion

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Endless Writer © Ata Zargarof 2018

atazargarof@gmail.com

BC, Canada