Leaves
poetry2018
is it you
or
is it the leaves
and
it's veins
and the pains
that this
brings along,
uninvited
invited
this
is what I run from,
and am scared of
'cause
what it's made of
makes my heart beat,
neat
it is, and tidy
like a
tissue
in the dustbin
which rots there
and stays there
with
other neat things
till it's picked up
and thrown
in more neat things,
it's now a pile
of vile,
while
there sits a dirty tissue
on my table,
unattended
the silence breaks
and takes
my heart –
the rotten apple
of dirty red
it's been to bed,
with plenty,
it's cut and bled,
in plenty,
it lives in dead,
like plenty,
it has cried and pled,
to plenty,
it has sped and fled,
from plenty,
says that's what she said,
on plenty
things
springs
it feels like
when breath
is smelled,
and eyes
are looked at,
hands are held and,
fire is cooked at,
stomach
and eyes
in touch
and lies
that eyes
speak sometimes,
in heart
and body
and shoddy
tissues of skin
everywhere
it's probably why
the breath is warm
and fiery
it heals my skin
and briery
heart
which had walls
and now
balls!
it's torn down
and infiltrated
she knocked the door
and raided
my house
my safe
and traded
them to
herself –
the faded
muse of my art
that she is
tell me,
"is it you
or is the leaves?"
-I.R.