To Listen to Music While Reading this Poem, just Click Here!
Click Here To add this poem to your "Voting Possibilities" list!
My Heart Is Porcelain
In a room where the walls are lonely, where the hours are added by burnt tobacco in a tray, and where the pen refuses to move except in the most meandering of fashions, pour the brandy once again and remember that love is seldom worth the pain, poetry rarely worth the wait. Outside this island window the sun rises, a ship dawning, closing from the edge, its sails an amber glare on the ocean, buring the past beneath fragile sentinels of salt -- a mercy which will doubtless dissolve when the moon again ascends and memories once more sail its craters upon waves of thin and plaintiff dust. Last night the waters shone pale. Salt slept and ash billowed in mocking tones above remote platinum lakes. My bedroom became a theater of nightly encores, the ceiling a screen and tears rolled from my pillow -- the letters of her name shattering in liquid shards upon the wooden floor. I felt her voice, cradled her face in my hands and kissed her once again. Porcelain became dust when she died. Now, confronted one more morning with this cracked mosaic reflected unkindly back, I sense already the day's briefness, its disinclination to tarry and to rebut the evening's pending eddies. There is no relief. My pen lies yet restrained. The ink is brittle and uncaring of all save the stalled genesis of these walls. I hope my editor will understand. He won't. How can I tell him I am waiting for salt to triumph and for dust to finally embrace the dawn's approaching prow?
Sorry, there are no critiques for this poem in our system... If the poem is older, the critiques have been purged!
Click HERE to return to ThePoeticLink.com Database Page!