I’ve not written nearly as much poetry lately as I ought.
(For example: I got through roughly four or five days of NaPoWriMo before it just stopped wanting to come, and I decided to not force it and just write prose that was coming instead. On the bright side though, at least I’ve written something every day so far this month!)
However, last night something did finally decide to start tumbling out, and, well, who am I to argue?
I’m not sure that I’m quite done editing it, yet, but for now…
the little girl is lost inside the library of herself
he finds her dog-eared, spine-creased
broken-in (but unbroken)
in piles of poetics where she looks for passageways
and smiling, softly, at the seductive scent
of knowledge & decay
and she lilts out words of love like prayers
like mantras, or misguided marriage vows
a myth, that is all their own
and when she raises her face
above inkstained hands
he fancies he sees own features
reflecting, as if he himself were the ink
and her skin a delicately gilded page.