And with blood the ending comes
Washing through pipes, breathing force
A chamber concave impounds the heart
Flesh become one, is flesh ripped apart
There’s nought left but bare walls
To stare through at dusk
And the knowledge that she’ll soon be porcelained with love
Whilst I gnaw the rent throbs of memories she’s left
Washing through pipes, breathing force
A chamber concave impounds the heart
Flesh become one, is flesh ripped apart
There’s nought left but bare walls
To stare through at dusk
And the knowledge that she’ll soon be porcelained with love
Whilst I gnaw the rent throbs of memories she’s left
The yellow has spent itself from starry night
One twinkle of many sequined in the sky
Not missed, but if rare, more precious to shroud
Not nothing breaking through layers and shakes
My tense will tears at regret and at loss-
Being just a bead ‘mongst her pearls-
And with blood the ending comes
Erik Knutsen
was born in Vancouver, BC, lives in Portland, OR. He is unsure where he will die. He has been published in Tinfoil Dresses, Abjective, Unfettered Verse, Everyday Poets, and Static Movement.
