On Love, (14) Poem by Bjorn Visser

Like a tree,
you are.
Trapped in the very grounds
you once thought yours.
Yet roots sprung like inside-out snakes, coiling
reaching out.

At least, that’s what
the once brilliant, warriors whispered,
secretly in silence.
careful of the woods.

You drive me to the grave,
affections of love,
what love
(I dare ask?)
The love,
of a carbon monoxide filled world?
Or the innocent affections,
that now silently escapes the
lovers once thoughtful balloon.
Releasing painful flaws,
with such open gall,
and thought out audacity
that even the mimes now scream.
changing now not only the room,
but your voice.

Is love not the cloth,
that the taker holds close.
Or perhaps the never realized placebo,
to life.
the psychological scapegoat.

Perhaps, the norm.
The commercialized world spares no heart.
thus, each empty confession,
confession of love;
filling the pocket of a black tied,
over weight man.

I write, a hand as pale as your skin.
Only changing color,
at each touch.
Uncovering the age old secret,
the blood running through my wrist,
my heart,
my mind.

Like a tree,
you once thought, freedom.
Like a human,
Trapped, in a carbon monoxide world.
breathing not only the lies,
but the commercialized,
sin.
the over weight mans,
pocket, filled to the brim.


[add on; the muse was poppies in october, by sylvia plath]