Poetry

I’ll Mark My Door And Call It Ours
Kaleb Smith

Lamb down my pretty hurt searcher and rescue me
I’m ok. really.

Lamb down and lay bloody, my fucking innocent.
I’ll mark my door and call it ours.
I’ll lay beside you and neither of us will sleep.
I’ll wrap you tight till you feel safe enough to sleep.
And the blood will stop.

I know a sunset that’s red like that,
I remember seeing it behind the wind of your hair.
I remember how the clouds were purple with pity,
Watching that painful red goodbye behind the wind of your hair.

And now the red is gone, the clouds are lost in the dark.
You are no longer with me.
And the night has no such pity.
It is too slow and deep to feel with me,
The memory of the wind of your hair,
Behind me now.

14 Mar 09

Fill A Voice With Remnants
Kaleb Smith

Like a long time mother-friend, you leave me cared for and loved.
A closing and opening knowing, hinge grinding on fear of attachment.
Respect these drifters as goddesses, riding a precious secret.
Their long trailing strings are histories that sting with wisdom.

Stored old scores, I collapse into tired stories, disassociated.
I fill a voice with remnants, and they are like many hot embers.
With beauty to fuel, charm to catch fire this tired passion.
I offer my archive like a wall, decorated with decades forgotten.

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