Jar Of Clay Poem by bjanka ivas mamic

Break me dawn, for I've come betimes,
sulphurous, antically, olfactive, greener moss,
to dozing, roundabouts of his rhymes,
mizzling shrewishly, unintentional macron above loss.

Accompanied with four doves, ponderous heart,
enveloping entropy of subsiding dirge.
Must I wait till day ends and comes the night,
where all my sins will emerge.

My jars of clay have served me well,
and I won' t shatter them in stout,
for I'll surely twitch again on sound of bell
invoking penitence from benumbed mouth.

My jars of clay will serve me good,
though my ribs have failed him and me,
launching heavy breath through hood
of leather, these vacant hours. Let it be.

Let it be, the longing for touch.
Let my recumbent nape yearns forbidden cognition.
Perhaps this wayward voyage is much
more fluent than river, translating me libation.

I'll be his winter, behind the barricades.
I'm much less than what he had hold. Less I bring,
with coarser hands, pressing him on my breasts,
leaving heavy shades, heavier than those of spring.

But my doves will hold the laces of the knots,
all four, maimed, though purged shall lie
down and beckon the love's peregrinating thoughts,
because, when he's not around, I...