if i could tell you what is inside of me
laying in wait like some threatened beast
skulking in shadows.
the slow slide of blood in my veins;
hiding cobra -
in an old stone wall.
if i could see
without looking too hard
what everyone else can see
and know what it all means:
decode the crypt,
justify the high whine of this inner violin
as it takes on that edge of desperate heights;
for all the grief and bittersweet
poignancies of these things -
these almost repetitive things.
a heart such as mine, which has flown
in folly most divine,
has been devastated
like a butterfly in a matchbox
in some ignorant child's hand
who, in poking at the delicate chrysalis,
crushes it before it was matured.