Poetry

Coming from the dark―
to deceptive bloodletting.
The light was my father.
 
That eternal moment
of pine cone―
to become the third eye.
 
The ancient memory
becomes vandalized. I
still treat it with respect.
 
The unclaimed truth was
yours. I wanted to retrieve
the spoken word.
 
Incongruously brazen
was your thrust, exhorting
me to drown.