Borne Of Shadows Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

Intense, I retreat into sweet melancholic distractions,
alchemising poems out of heartache.
Impulsive as a brook turned inwardly volatile,
I cling as moss does to a smooth stone.
I want to lie by your bones.

But every day irreversible things get spoken —
the serpent's head strikes and cannot be called back.
The world is never stable,
it is integrated with maggots and butterflies,
each borne of shadows.
But the worst villain there, looking back,
is the reflection of oneself.
You can't escape.

We take mementoes of ecstasy,
of healing, and then we bubble wrap it
with tape. But one by one
the bubbles burst, and the contents break.
And all that's left is an unravelled ball,
tape over-stretched and deflated —
thrown hard against the wall,
left for the bin.