I do not speak your name often.
It lies in my soul
in a bowl carved by pain,
smoothed by tears,
fired by fury.
Someday your name will take wing
and will fly from me,
splitting my heart in two,
cracking the bowl it bred,
and I will be left all in pieces.
Until then, I hold your name
silently in my heart,
still and brooding you rest there.
I do not dare to call to you;
even to free my soul,
I will not willingly break fine china.
***
No comments:
Post a Comment