A Blanket 

Huddled under the warmth of memory
Feeling the warp and weft, the texture of a life well felt

Sparks born by a beautiful stranger,

Golden sunshine of sleepy morning sex.

The simple poetry of movement,

The keyboard advance of connection,

The lazy slow-dance of love, and loss, and belonging.

A smile becomes closed, complicated.

The creatures come,

Seductive whispers of blackness, safety.

My hand comes away from my face bloody,

As Atlas weeps apologies.

Bloody drops in November rain from hopeless wrists and shorn hair – stumbling drunken through a world that makes no sense, and oh -the cost.

Throwing safety and sanity into a torrent of ambivalence, looping threads madly snaking through gorgeous images of uncle and destruction.

A crying wimper against cold deadbolted doors, shivering snot and fear and fearful visions of judgement and weakness.

Rocking back and forth with the hoarse invocation -I never wanted this. I never asked for this. I never wanted this.

She came and went.

And by going gave the pathological will to live.

In the well-worn segments of forgiveness and guilt I forget where I lost myself and found my mind.

Warm, safe. Cocooned in memory.

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Published by

James

Easing into my mid 30's, writing just crept up on me. I had to put something out there - no matter what. So here we are! I live in Canberra, Australia and work in statistical IT systems development and support and am a proud father of two

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