Whispered Tales of Sedition

My breath holds dusts,
Like half-crumbling memoirs
Some figments from lost cities,
Some glitters from emerald tapestries,
Some bits of this maritime humidity
And frosted flakes of forgotten winters.

But I guess it’s for the better,
How no kiss came with complete abandon,
How your back under my nails,
Always shifted, uncomfortable
Betraying that tiniest bit of caution.
Scared, lest I transmit them-

Entire stories, captive under my eyelids
Entire worlds, inside my flesh and body.
Entire graveyards of almosts that died on my tongue.
Hand to hand, mouth to mouth,
More pamphlets, less poetry, reeking of my sedition.


Would you drive a dagger through yourself,
Unless reality, with its daily grisly ritual
Is used to cutting you deeper, bleeding harder?

Would you fall on a sword,
Unless the sharp blow slowly tearing into you,
Is still less cruel, still hurts lesser,
Than that daily sucker punch in your gut?

Would you, by your own hands,
Choose to stop the manic rhythm in your chest
Unless in its last beating throes, your dying heart,
Thanks you, for freedom, for emancipation
From the fist that was reaching into your ribs,
Crushing it, crumbling it, ripping you apart.