The moon of heart is decaying, like the part of me that was then withering through the fullness of her age / I smelt of the night’s strangeness, slept through the rock that was unfamiliar to my tenderness / in a bed, where her body lays, I saw the shape of someone else / & everything starts to bleed again / there’s a ledge of where I once stood / a tiny peculiar somebody that you used to know / I spoke so much of my sinews, tendons, marrows / that every layer stripped to the bareness of the bones & beyond / & finally I was defeated by exhaustion, by being the guided ghost / the completion of being naked in totality / that I have allowed every secret, hidden part of me to be known / yet still, I was just a somebody else of whom unknown / albeit what I have shown are in the essence of Venus’ undraped, exposed, undefended, undisguised veneer self / in many ways, shapes & forms have I walked alone / & there’s a courage of courtesy, of gripping to a heartache, to what’s empty, to the despair of dolour / I hear again Max Richter’s “On the nature of Daylight” & I bleed again, through every part of my body / that no matter the language of joy I can learn to speak, of moving forward away from the wounds, from what’s now recognised as the aloneness of feeling, acknowledged as the horridness of mistakes yet somehow I ended up with my original tongue, the vernacular of a never ending abrasion / & though she is here, in the body of another or that I am of someone who has always been a stranger in the possession of an estranged vessel of longings / that I beg again, to the new moon, to take me, this foreigner, away from the land I once thought was home —
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© D C de Oliveira || March 20 2019 || Wednesday 8.27pm
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