FREE VERSE POETRY

Ouroboros

My resurrection

Shedding my skin. Photo by Amir Sani on Unsplash

Watch me follow the route
(and take the root)
of the Messiah.
Forty arid days
is all it will take
for me to conquer
my unbridled grief.
And Lucifer is cognizant
of the fact
my flesh slightly lacks
the slippery sustenance
of the reservoir within
since I’ve cried enough tears
to drown the earth
and I have nothing left to give.
Show me the wings I must cut*
or watch me eat my own heart
before I pray to him for the
falling wormholes
that will transport me back
to the moment before
the words were said
that marked the end
and leave them hovering
on the tip of his tongue
to be dissolved in my mouth
with kisses, never to be uttered,
never to be uttered
but always bound to be
the carcinogenic assurance
of my quicksand descent
into more of the same illusion.
So, get thee behind me.**
I want the mirage,
I want the suffering,
I want the desert.
Because to quench this thirst
I must love myself first.