A sudden stab of desire
by a thirst
that only words

A slice of pierced light
Carefully constructed

A gasp of breath
Taking it all in
When it could
No longer
Be held.

The tear in the shield
so easily rent
Making one wonder
Was it always
So Bent?

The stake driven
Upholding as it should
The tangled


The last word in each verse carries a subversion of itself, if not completely, it questions the interpretation of the entire premise in the verse.

Caught by the words or were the words caught? Was there a snare? Were the words desired or were they words of desire. What was caught here – the person writing the verse or another? What was desired here – were the words the object of desire or were they sent on behalf of or to the desired? Caught.

Scaffolding. To support. Temporarily. To build a ladder to climb to places one normally does not go. Scaffoldings sliced are not safe places. What use is a light that slashes scaffoldings? What truth or beauty can one bring to a scaffolding?

Be Held. Beheld. What could not be held any longer? Literally one’s breath? Because of something breathtaking? Or because someone took one’s breath away? Or it could not be held any longer because it was difficult to see? Too much to take in. Too bright. Too unbearable. Too close or too far. What cannot be held?

Bent. To be twisted out of shape. Or to be twisted morally or ethically. To turn towards something. To be turned in a particular direction. What was bent so? To what was it inclined? What did one see that was so bent and yet could stand shrouded, shielded. Was the shield so or did the bend make it so vulnerable? Is that what it always wanted? Was it always inclined so?
Bower. A place of tangles and dappled sun. A place of tangled, twisted beauty. Where the tangles are upheld by firm stakes. Stakes with roots as deep as the tangled creepers, the ones who lean on, who bow down – or seem to almost bow down. Not in humility but to show themselves better. To show what blowsy beauty they want the beholder to admire and reward. Courtesans that bow with grace, depending upon the stakes that drive through them and hold them. The shoulds are tangled in the bower.

Yes, poets are liars.


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