On Clay Tiles
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I saw the dagger coming but I ignored it;
I was distracted by your cologne
And couldnít see past the roses
Or the laissez faire afternoon sunlight;
Where we draped our bodies
In comfortable positions
In the crumpled sheets
Where the world was ours
And every blossom opened for us
You explored my vista
In gentle strides and vigorous climbs
To the pinnacle
Of panoramic bliss
Where the air smelled of pine boughs
And you were a man
Who had conquered
What no one thought you could
Then, I was a landscape of beauty;
You bathed in my warm springs
And sipped of my milk and honey.
Oh, how we shamed those epic lovers
For the weakness of their love
When compared to ours
Which inspired the music
Of mantises and birds
There would have been no stabbing
Had there not been love
There would have been
No blood spilled
On the clay tiles of my garden
Where I used to pick flowers for you.
I lie now in the blossoms and weep
With my sundress crumpled around me.
I slump in a ball;
Where all I can see is dirt
And canít find the strength
To lift my garden trowel
To plant more flowers for you...
Here, I share, with stark honesty, my life.