by Matthew Zangen
It is the knowledge of nakedness
beneath your skin;
some claim to unknown crimes
where the shame and want of you stands
like a blister on a pin,
bleeding for a purpose,
pleas for reasons to remember
anything other than what it is--
a sore, a rub, a temporary insanity.
A pock of plenty passion
is still a wound,
bears its own memory
when testing teeth were tearing through
to seek and swallow something
so deserved as this iron tension.
It is the air, a poisonous absence
of breath for thoughts
with skin on end and rubbed of rust
as if we never came before
to watch our love return to dust.
Posted on 04/04/2008
Copyright © 2020 Matthew Zangen
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Erin Eymard on 04/04/08 at 07:11 PM|
Very passionate and a poem that I can relate to. You had me with the title and sealed me with the second stanza. Very nicely done.
|Posted by Alison McKenzie on 04/08/08 at 03:36 PM|
This is just full of the ache of "touch/no touch", rock-hard steel desire that grips and won't let go. Very passionate with references to a darker side throughout. NICE!!!
|Posted by George Hoerner on 08/01/08 at 01:26 AM|
Everything returns to dust, even passion! That doesn't mean it was bad/wrong. It, like so many things, just is.