B O T T L E D


“Are you single?” he asked
“It depends on whether you mean that literally or existentially,” I answered.
“Both,” he answered.
“Then no and yes,” I answered before waving goodbye.

We marry ourselves in childhood and often live out battles of bottled emotion lined in messages of subconscious loyalty to our spiritual selves.


Clarity wraps her ribbons around us in the final hour of death
The marriages we nurtured in secret gather around our heart
There exists no space for ceremony, no time for sequencing
Smoke covers our eyes as we wave our hands to clear
Theology
Dust settles on our tongue as the grandeur of language finds wisdom
Resistant to the sanctity of indigenous literature and refusing impart
Torchbearing
We stare in awe at hieroglyphic jewels hidden beneath relic interlopers
Sparkling and fabled in spheres of autobiographical benedictions
We smile at Philosophy, Dream, Inspiration, and Fate in remembrance
Satisfied
They weep at sculptured Beatitudes engineered in their presence
Adorning
Our pillows of light, they refract attributes of bound Lexicons
Releasing autumnal virtues of whimsy, our spirits are wed
In the Architect’s studio