There is much for the weight
Of ever-greater history
Bound to the strings, forever played
On the instrument of her heart.
Nectar, to the lips,
Short in syllables, of long
Sentences heaved from heavy sighs.
Taking too long to read a book,
When made for breaths of the shores
That rock the last of abandonment
Scurrying from her unborn mind.
There are virgin easts,
Settling upon whoredom in the west.
Light casts nothing but a shade
Wide upon her plain
Stare and cold shoulders.
I hold her in hands,
As wrists rest atop pages
To a broken spine.
Why had cowardice been so heavy
To the night
When love had been so light?
Her gaze, a common spectacle,
And so rare for the saline structure
Of salt through the wound
On a heart, so wide.