You let it ride you.
You, the sweating land,
the sickness, a harass
of horses
galloping upon
your spine.
Bitter papers the walls
of your mouth.
It is not for containing,
each corpuscle pop,
an exploding lava
that makes marionette
this mortal frame
you foolishly claimed your own.
Your protruding bones rattle
to the feast of parasites,
younger than the other
condition,
still kin to it,
this most ancient of sickness
we call love.

01/06/2013

Posted on 01/07/2013
Copyright © 2025 Johanna May