What murders lie buried within the
sheaths of tears we can only
ever dare to know?
A gazelle smiles at me, his lips
peeling, his world bleeding
dewdrops of a morning frost.
He has no eyes. He
fades, fazes, runs through closed spaces.
Oh tears of sorrow and morning frost,
dewdrops gathered into sheaths –
Hands in the throes of morning light,
feet glowing with dusk’s delight,
all colored in simple pinks and whites.
This murder lies concealed
as a lion’s jaw.
Charring its own hand off,
anointing with dirt and disease –
it is one deeply forgotten.
Itself a victim of its lion’s jaw.
Emptiness is nothingness, and it
dares to speak out -
Dewdrops of a morning frost
devour the emptiest space of all.
To be washed away with nothing more than tears,
It glistens like snow.
And upon emptiness, I scratch
out a graveyard;
upon morning light I wilt
into a final cry.
These murders lie buried within
the sheaths of tears
we can only ever dare to know.
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