* Re: Cut *

How unfortunate –
a detached fetus,
yet an unborn,
fragmented with still lukewarm

Blood,
A lump like a lemon,
lifelessly quite,
That greyish red tissue.

Flat placenta,
A cake marinated with cold jelly,
Your warm affection
Ichor injects

No more into the heart.
I hold (on to) it,
Clutch our unborn
of rosy future.

A grief, that is.
Alone in the room
A dead silence
Sing with the drifted weep.

Where is the mother?
O my
Love, “I am ill.”
I’ve been prescribed a pill to bury

The thick
Tenacious feeling.
Tristesse,
do(es)n’t leave me.

The stain on your
Glove merciless
Remark
Misty and mistaken and when

The pulse
Agitate your heart
Change your dark
Room of wound

How you depart –
Resilient victim,
Dream girl,
Mother without birth.

*Recomposed from Cut by Sylvia Plath

* Re:Romance *

‘’And in the night’’
With a drunken man lying down stairs
Conversation flied through the twigs as if there were only us
And she hooked me onto this thing called romance
In front of her friends’ house, used to.
I was dreaming,
It was sweet.
The voice so bright the moon lights between the lips
I felt the warmth of blood through my vein
Drifting off to love.
I promised myself that I would never lose her
My timid desire for a delicate she,
I’m scarred with fragile affection,
I thought of that sometimes.

Romance is now dead and done.
And it cut into my rib cage deep and sound
The breath of baby dead silent
And it cut into me between flesh and soul.

‘’I could begin to open up and risk desire
For I move slower and
Quieter than most’’
I’ve gone too deep too soon I still forget too slow
I wish it wasn’t that way but at least it’s you.

Touch me here
Dance to me
‘’I don’t care
If’’ it repeated
I want to be where you are
For all that I desired humble as it can be but last a bit further
Than that of a cut flower
So when I look at the stuff there still you are not gone

Flesh and soul
Deep and sound
Inside

*Recomposed from Ex:Re – Romance by Elena Tonra

* the existence of you *

All that I lost, I missed, and all that I’m missing.
But she is there, right on time.
In the stream of unlimited moments she is out there awaiting me to bump into.

What if I can’t see all her beauty,
What if it’s always not enough?

Any thing stimulates me; everything is about you.
Thirty-three autumns that past,
Last words of the three thousand years old sacred tree,
World that has yet to come,
Mysterious tingling. 

The tiny notes that remind me of the existence of a you.

(This work was partly done last October)

* Still Be *

It has been four hours,
nothing happened.
If the night falls it’s because it has no option but be
like there is nothing so certain at the end
but death;
certainty that we celebrate.
In the afternoon the solitude hurts me,
not you.

You are incapable
of hurting me anymore,
as you are gone,
to somewhere only you know.
Maybe your yurt,
Don’t tell me,
I can’t bear it.
I couldn’t see that coming,
but live it.
The world that I didn’t expect,
an empty one that I never thought of.
It has been eight months
passed without me noticing;
I was in the midst of torment,
and I’m still be.

* Still a broken heart *

Clouds depart, emptying.
Left on me deserted sky, vast vacancy,
Much sorrow under the brilliant sunlight,
As if it cares nothing.

Wind orchestrates,
Leaves whispering gossip,
Millions accounts of the life and death
Of things that cross our mind missing.

Much was lost, things I forget,
But not that haunting thought.
Reminding me that I,
Under the Sunday afternoon, still a broken heart.