is a ribbon tied taut w/ a bow.
It is twisted together (as to not overflow).
The bow, where the ends meet,
(it holds me together)
flows w/ red, rich, gushing flood.
We all need a buoyant flood cycling within us
to run circles and tides ‘round,
in perpetual row
(In a track in the body tied off w/ a bow).
Bright and concealed, like the seeds of a pomegranate;
building-block parts enclosed in a semi-soft box.
Crimson, juicy, messy-muck
Must be dearly held inside.
Encased and closed. To ripen and grow.
I am a box w/ 4 flaps
and a bow.
But when the box doth spring a leak,
the knot unties and the blood doth flow.
We are alone in our boxes,
holding them closed.
We are not yet prepared for the seeds in the souls,
the holes that dwell within the hose.
When the crimson bow
in the ribbon
unties, or is untied—
Woe is me when my string is not unified.
Through the ends of the rope/
Mutilation, a kink in a fold.
A tear in a raincoat.
A leak in a boat.
How am I
to ebb and flow
when all I know
is tied in a bow?
Yes, I know to keep it closed:
the circle of movement preserved by a bow.
A beautiful circle lives inside that loop.
Where end meets end and makes a whole,
and I am alone w/ all my constitution held
Tightly in a blood-flow.
that no one
No one knows
Is that, in blood,
my words are closed:
Incubating in a tourniqueted hose.
Held neatly, tightly,
In the red sea of rose.
copyright: C. Ward 2016