to cool the warming arrows that was read,
as tattooed serpents on a youthful thigh.
Those silent words with taste of moldy bread.
Yet, in the winter wind I leave to dry,
in whispered softness of the morning rime,
forgotten icicles of tears you cried.
I’m eaten by the secret of my crimes,
in hidden wardrobes of my skeletons,
hear rusty bells of hide-and-seek, the chime
for paying all my debts in penitence
for hidden words that stay in residence.
Abhra is hosting Poetics today and want us to write about our secrets without actually revealing them. We all have secrets, and somehow they can be a burden sometimes, a hellish thing really that make a terza rima a suitable form, at least in my mind.
Come join us, Pub opens at 3 PM EST.
January 13, 2014