04-04-2018, 06:02 AM
Creature
It was not an artist that stitched my face
into this graveyard patchwork; nor, a sculptor
who formed bones around a stagnant quilt
of ever-stretching skin. Even my breath
was the whim of lightning, and I still jitter
down these empty roads.
I bear no image, but I will be like him.
All who see me will stain their lips
with his name. Until
it is finally only my name
and he is forgotten.
It was not an artist that stitched my face
into this graveyard patchwork; nor, a sculptor
who formed bones around a stagnant quilt
of ever-stretching skin. Even my breath
was the whim of lightning, and I still jitter
down these empty roads.
I bear no image, but I will be like him.
All who see me will stain their lips
with his name. Until
it is finally only my name
and he is forgotten.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson