Lament
If you could catch
the countless petals
that perish on my pillow
or taste the sighs
that saturate my hungry gorges,
that cry out for
something greater,
wider,
pure,
then you would hunt me
like the others
who try to hang my tusks
above their mantel.
I know this now:
there can be no happy ending
for the troubadour of truth,
just as there cannot be
for the unicorn,
or the mermaid caught
with seaweed in her hair.
It is the lament
that bore me like a mother,
that cradles me
in a lowly strand of moon-light,
singing me,
darkly,
of the end of days.
