The Stories of the Woman, as Told to the Poet by the Passing Pilgrims
In the evening of the last day of August,
She chose to boast she was the strongest
And most useful of the list of us.
She rose to the challenge
And chased away
All the rest of the best.
For this, she was cursed.
This structure she built to stop the host
Of winds and stillness
Has left us wistful
For days of ghostly weather,
Lost lust still clinging to our breast.
In the worst moments of the last stand,
The latest string of stoning were both the quickest
And the quietest,
Leaving me unaware of the victims and the hostages
Until after the list was delivered to the staff.
If only she still stood with us.
I still stall when confronted with
The vast westerly winds blowing
The stillness into my stone ghost of a world.
I look out at the newest coast,
Hoping to cast a strong stagger
Across the paths of the stilted tigers.
I list across the landscape,
Reaching for the stability
In the stillness,
But stumble into
The strangest blusters
The strongest blusters
From one instance
To the next.
I am still alone.
I still need her.
If this lost love is not recycled,
I may well fear the strangest
Emotions will rest heavily,
On my chest,
Making me gasp
With what feels like my last breaths
For that lustful kiss
I missed when it was over.
5. The Lost, the Last, the Understood
We have all found our way
Out of the wildest ends
Of the apocalypse
Of our souls.
All we have to do now
Is restore paradise to
All we need to do so