by Cam M. Roberts
This history written in me
on scrolls longer than miles of veins
from body and blemished soul
to health; the breathing, the sharp pains
of each heartache beating deeper
onto constant rhythms like clocks,
a metronome of suffering
the wounds, and healing when she mocks
my smile, my stare fixed on nothing,
but that laugh; has she read the book
of mysteries scribbled on fibers
within me? Lo and behold: look
to queries which memory brings
to you, the burning eyes of day.
Where are you going in darkness?
Into the pulse of night, the way
towards what’s yet to come. Ink soaked
spaces reflect deaths of the pen,
their blood marking all they touch
like living in blank verse with men –
I could unravel my own life
and hang for all to mark or judge
with holy ink water and words.
Exorcisms of me, that smudge
across poetry, confessions
wildly compelled, yet out of reach, splotched
sheets mark the wordless entropy –
Thus, each word inserted seems botched.