Constant Poem by Riano Harp

All senses have been sharpened into arrows,
Slashed into shards by a fresh reality
The fragile fist bleeds into the wind as rain
And arises the mist.

Pores are drilled and purified as faces tighten,
Stretched by lacking resources of the leaking mind
Or is it the ignorance of thick, drying eyes
Made a freckle by the sun?

Though your reflection is slit and shaped as you read,
The paper inked in dashes of blood, your throat sore and inflated
By crystalline shards of pumping glass, you cough in withering intention
Spreading shining souls across the deck.

My fingers are stung by the mind shrouded in nettles and thorns,
Glued to the melting heart that dresses a mothers worry
For the scales are burning and the debt is weighed
All clocks blink in isolation.

Blackened and pruned, the tongue relapses into the sea
As the hammers match the fingers as stumps, nails latch onto eternity
Stones roll as wasted words dry, irony is embroidered in natures tusks
All crosses are out of luck.

Stitches paint the face of a child, blind to a gun
And yet again are my efforts a breathing skull
Shivers waste give breath to the wind and faith to the buried,
Characterised by thundering rebuke.

My poetry is a hologram in shards,
As is the space in between,
Projecting the final picture through dust
Onto you and all.

I am constant.