Seventeen 03.01.10

My head is wreathed in wilting poppies. I come to you withered and worn. My ribs are starting to show through from this hunger strike, this fast. My wings are molting obsidian hued feathers faster than I can sweep them away. They are cutting the soles of my feet to ribbons along their sharp edges, like razors. I don't even notice anymore, the pain is nothing compared to this abysmal wrenching of my heart. I slide in these pools of blackish crimson I leave behind, shuffling through them in a way that is graceful but torpid.

Behind me is a trail of smashed and soaking feathers, footprints smeared in sticky pools of oxidized blood and a sprinkling of silver teardrops. Amongst the wreckage, here and there, are discarded dying poppy petals and through it all a long rattling chain rasps along the floor. A chain that is rusted but remains unbroken, leading back to the heart I gave you. It is ticking like a clock, suspended in the sands of a broken hourglass. Your Morpheus is broken.

But why do you shudder my love? What cause have you for worry when I am almost wasted away, and you will no longer have to mourn the passing of my once splendid form? Oh here, I see what's wrong. You're tourniquet is slipping. Here, allow me to tighten it for you. There now, see? All is right again. All is forgiven. Soon you will push toxins into your veins that will carry away your memories of me, the time we have shared, and all the fierce love that ever lay between us. Soon you will be filled with a warm glowing sensation of euphoria and after that a humming kind of numbness that will allow you peace. Because you will have already replaced me with someone else.

But that would be the desirable outcome wouldn't it? To replace me so that you wouldn't have to remember I ever have loved you, have ever brought you dreams or fantasies and tried to make them whole. I am tending the bleeding hearts and forget-me-nots in your Giardino di Cuore. For they are surely wanting some comfort and attention in these troubled times. Flowers as rare and delicate as these require sunshine and morning dew to blossom and seed. I am bringing both with me each time I visit them.

Flying like Icarus on my broken wings to the sun I capture it's rays and bring them down to your sprawling wonderland gardens so that they might thrive. Soon my wings will not bear enough feathers to make the full journey smoothly. No matter, I will continue, flying high as I can as the wind rips these flight inducing feathers from my body and then, unable to withstand the height, I will fall. I will crash down to the merciful soil of your gardens and drape myself across a throne that is gathering spider webs and starting to crumble. This is Eden, after the fall, barren but bittersweet in its enigmatic beauty. It holds the secrets to the great mysteries and I stay chained here watching this heart clock grow purple and bruised while the stinging sands of a broken hourglass whip at it.

You never did share the secret of the universe with me everyday as you said you would. In the end, like many things, you kept that neatly to yourself I see. But now, liberated from my presence, you're out sharing it with another. I suppose at least you've learned some lessons. If there were any to be gleaned at all, it should be that you should not fear to share yourself with others. You are so wonderful, so rare a precious element that the whole world sparkles under your blinding halo. I hope you healing my love. I hope you are sleeping restfully and that some other god can bring you the dreams I cannot. My wings are too broken to make this journey now.

I can only linger in your Giardino di Cuore listening to all the sounds that it evokes. The music here is of the sweetest hymns, gospel for my tattered soul. Hymns like Hallelujah echo forth on delicate ethereal voices, pouring over my battered body in waves of light and peace. The aching tones of phantom stringed instruments, the moan of a cello, the whine of a violin, the weeping of a viola, mate on the violet breezes and bring my crown of poppies back to life. My heart stirs as a sound akin to wind chimes brings my brow a smoothness it has not known for some time. The heart clock beats, straining against its bonds and I shudder for I have no tourniquet to dull this pain.

Delicate emerald and ruby winged butterflies flutter to my crown and feed on the nectar that spills forth. It tastes as sweet and light as my tears, carrying no trace of bitterness for you. Hummingbirds made of iridescent verdigris and shimmering amaranthine feathers stand guard in the tree boughs above my throne. Their sharp eyes, atramental orbs, pierce everything with an unwavering and vigilant gaze ready to swoop down and frighten away any unwelcome intruders. My oceanic eyes scan the horizon as the sun dips in your gardens and casts them in the brilliant glow of corals, sweeping tones of copper, and blazing highlights of tangerine. The sunset is leaving me chill, and I pull my disheveled and rumpled wings around me for warmth. Twinkling knife points of pure white light begin to wink from the spreading indigo and deep blue grey spreading out above me. A full moon rises with pregnant grace.

I stare at it, wondering what new moons will bring, and how long it will be before my wings will mend, if ever. This garden, once my sanctum, is now my sepulcher. My throne bears the epitaphs you once sang in my honor. The butterflies and hummingbirds still themselves in sleep, and slowly my poppies turn to stone.