I begin elsewhere; my passions emit not from my own memory
(that beggar liar brute), honey-colored
wishbone broken within me. No,
these passions live beyond credulity
tucked away deep sore-throat knowing
sprung from the vast gallows song
crammed into shallow shelves stacked
in hollow coves expanding, parables
learned with the bodies of others --
Time slows as I wade through thoughts opaque,
tunneled and locked-in headfirst
beholden to the spare whims of the final page I wait
like old Goliath for youth’s stupor to break and stone me in the head.
Tuning like an unhurried orchestra
quivering like a bow newly rosined and poised
on this page I emerge deflowered and stupefied
damned to repeat longing unknown,
for it is all the longing I've sown.
Nad Messmer is a sophomore at Simon's Rock and Frequent Contributor to The Weekly Cad.