i am the archaelogist of my own bitter heart
the move of brush slides minutes past the hand
carefully blowing dust to see a face
here
a night there
revealed in lines so old that even Time cannot unmake them
i am the animator of my own bitter heart
the twitch to dance is frightening
a small child watching an animal fight to live
and grotesqueries’ cadence rises in my ears and
it’s so loud and sight so wrong
i cannot be touched
I am trying to create anew
what has aged beyond my skin
i am the architect of my own bitter heart
what was dust has turned to clay
warmed in the night
soft from the rain and Time has made it
ready to rise, ready to fall
and if hands were so gently holding mine
they could be holding this as well
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