Mortem | 4. The Melting Point

The Puppet by Kim Jakobsson

 


The Melting Point (silver, skin, bruise.)


Feelings out of the blue, we are but fragments,

little soldiers within my heart never stagnant.

The universe does not weep when stars fade,

but the archangel within my heart begins her crusade.


Thwart the motion, come and sit by me,

Hold my hands, put your head on my knee,

Let our eyes meet again and harness

the paramour gifted by bareness.


As march the little soldiers, my hand, too, dances

You are nothing but a glamour, my hand advances.

Abandoning our shells, we find ourselves,

The heat of the heavens are yours, I witness you.


Now harnessed, I feel your touch within me,

it is you my desires seek to oversee.

We are weightless, yet there is no space between us,

A moment, eternal, not even disrupted by the puss.


Your back invites my hand to follow

the harmony of feathers, no longer hollow.

Ours is but a dark room, yet I witness the bruises.

Who dares to abandon such a void with no use?


A couple of tears, I see, I feel, I spare,

Never a glare, the moment is only to care.

Feathers may rise again, but your flame,

once we touch, may never be the same.


Like a stronghold, our chests meet against nothingness,

Yet, there is another, a bruise on your heart?

An invitation to my hand, now’s the time for Impetus,

Like your name, your heart creates a chant.

One thump becomes two, they align, they are one,

A sensation, unlike other, now that the gates

of your heart upon your chest are mine to roam.

I share your flame, dangling from your cheeks to feet,

The bed under us becomes a pot, leaving nothing concrete.

Skins and souls, bruises and joys, looks and sounds,

A fascinating creation beyond the creation’s bounds.


Even if it’s dark now, give in to the silver lining,

For every cloud has a silver lining, always shining.

Give in to the melting point and harness the flame

for every flame arisen is no longer tame…

and no one to blame…

June 26, 2023

May god punish you all.
That is, if he decides to exist.

Everyone scratches some words into the walls of their heart when they are young.


What turns us into poets is the fact that we keep writing.

Even in death.

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