memoirs of a poet

i. strung

It is two o' clock in the morning and I feel it scratching in my brain. That insect. Birthed from another of my kind. Crawling in that cerebral matter. In that fleshiness - I was meant to be put to bed. A fetish of His. Seething between each ridge. He festers. A ripple of an occurrence. Not that of water, rather the kind that rips. Something much vulgar. Dominion of eulogies flocking eastward. That one stray headed north. A mother cradles her young. Clouds hold each other - scared and anticipating. Nimbus is in the heir. And a voice. Ominous and all-knowing. Bellowing to my half eaten thoughts: 'Create.'

ii. drawn

Rise and work. Something outside of me has called.
Something visceral. My gut pants at me; some lost starving dog. I need to satiate Him. A prelude to that morning star. 

Wolfish. I thread a few pieces together. Cranium tilted while the remnants from before leak out of my ears, nose, mouth, eyes - onto this mesh of everythingness nothingness. I string a few more. I pause and I am howling at something as awful as the moon. 

ii. quartered

It's done. It's up. It's not mine anymore. They took it and they’re not giving it back. Oh god, what if they hate it? What if they know I was the one who forged it? I can feel them looking at me like a blank canvas - they’re conjuring up all these theories about me aren’t they? I’m clawing at the remains, childlike and fetal.

 iv. an epilogue

It is morning. Celestial wonder has fled. I am left with the scraps of that interrogative sun. They took it and they’re not giving it back -
They’ve made a muse of it. Art hangs on to mine. Someone tells me they can feel the breadth of their grandmother’s garden, can smell that sickly residue of regret they had airing outside of them, can taste that rarefied dish made by their father when they were a babe, can see some mosaic of  themself. 
And in that, I become content by the mourning. I may have made something beautiful. They took and they’re not giving it back. It’s not mine anymore.