adachef

I wrote this when I was reading a lot of e.e. cummings:

His phrases swallow my doubts without mercy
or remorse for preventing their dark deeds.
Harsh memories seem to tie my improvement
and burst my heart but brutal becomes my joy.

He ends the echo of my fault.
The vile sting is lessened to degrees of
necessity’s care while I wield every decency I possess.
Imperfect, yet I am somehow cherished.

I call out, weeping for his moment.
Common to harsh disappointment
I age beautifully in his “yes”
as a spire of sharpened light mends my trust.

Sweetness is his Author.
Every gentleness illustrated by
calming words.
Quiet safety that offers his constant hand.

So far and I feel him.
Clinging to everything, nothing.
Laid before the open road is unclear
and possibility never dreamed.

E.B.