Ruby glow of a living heart,
light bleeding oceans in the dark,
me hellfire low and hot as spark,
proud of Cain's jagged mark
for all the murder left behind--
never you but just the glow
how I wished that it was mine--
how I tried to call it close
from the place where it was lost.
How you loved to make me scream.
I told no one ever then;
people hate to hear your dreams.
Such things all pass to cold
and in the dark I see no glow
around the pixelled ending fuzz.
There's no crying need to chase
for the thing that lays me waste, for
filaments of was, for rubies in the maze.
No, it's the pushing, tedious circuit
nagging, whining me to work it
that's relentlessly replaced it;
and my pleasure is to shirk it.
My secret's not to face it,
to flinch, to hide in smoke,
faded sequins and repose
till it slips away undone
till someone else must take it up--
but so seldom shirking works,
and secret loves despited
go mostly unrequited.
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Images: A warmth, A lightness, A glow, and then, 1968 by Sam Gilliam
Fair use via wikiart.org
The Nap, 1877, by Gustave Caillebotte
Public domain via wikiart.org