THE WORDS

Your words deal castles crammed with noise under
stone sky, blood bridge, no water. It's as if
you set me in your painting, where you are.
I know this place: we're scanning the same page.

I always knew your words would ruin me,
and you, only one paragraph ahead,
both of us chasing tangled story-lines,
skimming at speed vast chunks of frantic rhyme.

The ceilings were too wide, beyond meanings,
flinging our last words back as noise; pure code.
I tried avoiding you, but had no choice;
knew I'd admit your ending equalled mine.

Cipher this slick only connects one way.
I knew this; still I followed it, running.
I blame the words. If you had spoken french,
this bridge would not have been here. Or this sky.

The castle would have seeped silence, not blood.
No blood, no rhyme, no turning of the page,
and I would not be spinning poetry,
not here, not now, weaving these last few words.




© Sara Willow