This language bred diseased tomes that divided creativity
into two imperfectly dissimilar halves,
thrust and twisted and beaten to separate philosophical directions.

My desire for your knowledge wanes - you
with your lightning-jagged lacerations and I -
with my poetry blades.

You sleep and the world sleeps;
I sleep and the world bends, hustles, moans,
solidifies and insolubly vaporizes at the spark
of your thought-flames.

You & I - and our division, and this mirror
reproducing mismatched images, and we agreed to be
the same enemy.
We are geniuses and we trill in the early mornings -
procumbently with our own
literary filth.

"Every person is a volume, darling," I said to you -
from the other side - acutely cognizant of our last,
great separation.

"Some are just better written."

02/10/2008

Author's Note: 7.Feb.2003 [oh, he's my FAVORITE.]

Posted on 02/11/2008
Copyright © 2024 Michelle Floyd