Inside the Self Portrait (1/24 hours)

With outstretched arms I dance the Devil’s waltz,
And wear, vainglorious – instead of telling – all my beads.

and wearily she threads the needle strong and
stitches a design of loss on skin
that has known this pattern in the past.

You ask me now to shed my tattered cloak,
array myself in garments chose by you,
to cast away my silver and my smoke,
to paint myself in Brigid’s fiery hue.

I don’t know how I got here or why I have been chosen
to be the repository of so many secrets,
so many shames, so many sorrows,
but it is my fate to listen

my shoes are stained with mud,
my ankles boast the cuts and scratches of the bogthorn’s embrace.

I give over to the Sirens of the Sea
and trust Atropos to slice the cord swiftly
or to trade places with her talented sister
and weave me a raft of rescue.

little drops of poison,
held in check
by a rigid position

a knife glinting sharp
stopped next to my jugular
with just a thought

don’t look for me to finish with the frontrunners;
don’t look for me to finish at all.
just know that i am moving:
never stagnant,
but never fullbore either.

No doubt one day a champion shall rise,
Who in his glory your enchantment breaks,
All thirst for passion’s succulence he slakes,
My heart, so ripe for ownership, he takes.

Create! Create!
Pour your essence into the universe,
splatter those random bits of
your you-ness everywhere you can.

No doubt you’re right,
this far away and long ago shit can’t work.
Most people know naught of deathless love
or unslaked desire

Soft leather tendrils slide along my skin,
such sweet reminders of your arms, so strong

A fierce consuming darkness lives
entombed within in your soul,
and I be not the one to was it clean.

so come and laugh, my friend,
it’s only fitting that
a fool should entertain you.
watch me blossom
in the water of salvation

Turning to reenter my solemn shell of a life,
prepared again to stitch until my eyes could no longer
blink back tears of disappointment and exhaustion, I paused

Look at yourself while still in sun you stand,
embrace the truth of what your heart requires.
Far better this than mediocrity,
than cursing shoulds and shouldn’t haves long past.

Pride is fine,
especially with flaky crust and sweet meringue,
but keep this man and toss that pie
into the foolish taunting face of loneliness.

And all the good intentions of a heart prepared to love
are no one’s guarantee that what it finds will be enough.