I Hear Names; I Lose The Names — A Poem To Time Bequeathed
The Entombment Of A Precious Grief
©Joanie Adams — Joanie Adams; Gift A Tea: https://ko-fi.com/joanieadamms
Once you were the bedazzling
Fondness in a heart long left forlorn;
The foolish hope, I dare and suppose
And thus it goes, through my hands
Unenviable, forlorn, betwixt the malice
Of a hefty, lonely decision — and you’ll still be gone, whatever I ado.
Pity to the point of a face-melting from any recourse of joy
Or wilting sun glows; only somber resonances to the fall thereof I.
Aye — aye, that part
Does me proud,
Enscript me with
The Good Death
This life was imparted
To be gifted, with that
Refined pang of Connotation;
Cursing, searching, meaning;
Once it could be flown
Upon the name of a vow,
To a friend, nearing to she —
Once it could’ve been at all,
Now equalized pitch
Of a high-timbre string
Blows rivulets out from my ears,
Down to the sense of uncaged Lemurs.
So smile to me, big-time, old smiley
And recount to me the endless bounty
Of stars for the pitching deafness
Thereof the remarks of thee,
Capitulated in the expanse
I call a domain, which I must
Diminish — as surely will be the day;
Can it be enfolded this day?
Whence the bridled spirit goes,
The entrails therein only meet in
The strangling of wrinkles
And that might be for a time,
As the fondness in my heart
Vanishes before me in the crescent
Of all futile approaches.
’Tis be — ’tis what will be, all wanton
And sexless, to the pilars
Of my consent being done.
I vex the vow of my name,
And that be forgotten, in all
That I have done, in the
Loosing of ye;
This fruit is repellent to the
Broaches of my affections
Be thy only savior from
The pitiable grief swamping
The heart that would’ve
Flourished under all other weather;
I leave ye all in trials,
As the fondness admits,
I have already left ye long ago,
As laden be, as laden must,
The cloaking felt,
Uncontrollably whispering knots.
That be my broach now —
‘Twill be the fool’s last remark,
To this jester in hedgerows, full
And crossed too much.
Out and return reels
The bitter blow and let ye
Belong, without me.
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