Creator of Words

365 Days of Creativity

day one hundred and sixteen

/ I keep putting my hand back into the flame

wondering if I'll ever catch fire/

So who are you?

She asks of me

She asks of me,

the mirrors three

three angles three angels three angler-fish

three curly cue lights on curly cue fish

So who are you?

I ask of her

I ask of her

the murderer

the killer the soldier the warrior true

the one who abolishes anything new

So who are we?

We ask of each other

We ask of each other

our blood and bone brothers

So how can I stop her?

 HE asks the three

the three different words

three versions of me

With fire!

With water!

With forgotten name!

Whispers the feather, onto the stain.

Whispers the heart, onto the brain;

"Stop her you must not,

for she is we.

She is the dear spine,

that ties you to me,

but spinal chords snapped,

she is the one

who tears us apart,

who rends us undone."

Then how can we keep her?

Whispers the flesh

Whispers the young one

Seven years fresh

"To keep her held straight,

you must lay her down.

Gently, alone,

weave her a crown.

Hands, this is your task,

tie it up soon.

Ribbons of flesh,

Weaved under the moon.

Muscles and sinew,

lend us yourselves,

lend us your strength,

your wicker-ous cells."

The spine yes she needs us!

Kneads us all day,

growing us weary,

Making us slaves!

"We cannot undo her,

or selves, fall apart.

We cannot taboo her,

or curse our own."

-heart

But body!

HE cries

She's not even of us!

"Wrong!"

-the heart lies-

"We changed once she loved us!

Souls are not separate, dependent beings,

they barter and wager,

trade parts between.

Like alloys of metal, once fused;

no refusal.

The fusion of love is a permanent rule."

Don't listen-

-brain starts

but heart beats too strong

HE cannot hear brain,

o-ver bloody throng

"Keep her we must,

and keep her we shall"

The pumping red boa

tells the other halves

And HE nods, for though she had left him un-spun

Left him a hero, lost and unsung,

this muse, this music,

his life's inspiration,

she left him a bone,

called 'pure desperation'

"Come back, come back,

my sweet Jezabel.

I'll light you a fire,

remind you of hell.

I'll stick in my hand, and let it catch flame.

I'll bat away bats,

keep darkness at bay.

Scorching my arm

and burning my wrist,

I'll keep you unharmed,

I'll make you my BITCH

No, no! I misspoke,

please don't run away.

I simply mean,

I will make you pay

STAY! I meant stay,

oh my tongue's all a twist!

My mind has been muted,

my thoughts, all a mist.

He struggles with matches

to bring her back.

No wood does he have,

but his cabin shack.

With hair from the witches,

he sparks up a pyre.

Throwing in notebooks,

beckoning, HIGHER!

The pages do fry,

their muse-master spire,

and he burns up their words,

A Love Affair Fire.

His product, his project,

his whole sense of being,

belittled and quitted,

un-requited it seemed.

But just as the last works

melted away,

a piece of ash rises,

like salt from a bay,

and yea here what have HE?

What have we?

HE says

"It's her,"

says the heart

"she's no longer dead."

And red-orange; heat mottled,

a minuscule bird,

a flame-feathered angel,

Creator of Words,

wakes up and blinks her, e-ternal eye.

"Come," coos the Phoenix "It is time to write."