Six seasons of discontent pass. In late March snow, oak trees bud warily
in spring’s sharp breath over bitter ground, where you stole my venerated virginity.
Swarming seagulls collide confused unable to land on canal outside my window.
Struck wilful by a wormhole of intuition, I hear a call from Jack of Hearts
to reprove, reclaim his submissive Lilith who cannot lay her head to rest.
Seizing pen, I follow frayed red thread that journeys across determined Irish sea.
This onerous ocean married us in our fool’s paradise, whether we liked it or not.
Stooping under weight of simple twist of fate, I know you can feel me coming.
Knock once, Knock twice, Knock third, final time on splintering wood between us.
After a lingering minute it opens. Silently you stare the hard lonely fever,
no colour or light in your eyes. I caress the many lines now on your face,
preserving the poems you have been unable to write.
Do I go in?
Excerpt from Ouroborus – Of Lilith and Anthony, by Katypoetess