My Immortal.

My immortal gone. Dead. Mortal after all. My constant. My anchor. My source. My well of favor. My love and lover. My punching bag. My piss-pot. My most precious possession. My cushion. My refuge. My shield. My own. Mine. Not yours. Theirs, but only a little. My breasts. My arms. My bottom. My legs. My fingers. My smile. My mirrior. My one.

Finished. Left. Gone to a place I cannot find or fathom, a place I cannot touch, now speaking a language in too high a register for my mortal ears to hear. My ma mother mamai mamalai mummy mumsy mamemimomu.

Of what use is sanity? Even if I let go now and become as stark raving as the mad hatter hisself! Won’t I still be able to write? Can words dare to desert me?  She gave them to me. They’re mine. Mine gift.  I can stop trying. I can let go. A little.

When I wasn’t aching. When I wasn’t dying of death.

When was that?


About Miz. Kyrte

I read, I write, I love. My favorite quote is: We're all going to die, all of us, what a circus! That alone should make us love each other but it doesn't. We are terrorized and flattened by trivialities, we are eaten up by nothing. Bukowski, baby! Extremes ;-)

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