I worry about the iron bird somehow becoming wounded.
I worry about the misogynistic nature of a man’s circumstance.
I worry about you wrapping your nude silk body in a satin red ribbon and sending yourself to him.
I worry about if my father was alive now, how much would he be disappointed in my choices.
The glass shards of the human spirit can only mend itself with hope for so long, before the substantial inferno of defeat rises to the attic.
The dawn spring is coming and I have yet to erase the funerals of winter.
For as much convincing I can provide to the sadists, I have yet to remove the knives in the wall.
And I wonder how many ravens I can swallow before their beaks pierce my lungs.
I don't want amnesia.
I just want to leave your ghosts behind.
© 2010 D.B.
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