The night she broke her bridle
and fled
possessed by that
giant black moth of despair
that sometimes comes to her,
I went out into the streets
in pursuit
until my soul was hoarse.
The night she broke her bridle
I thought I’d never
get her back,
that all my efforts
to make a garden of her love
were lost.
And all I found
were the traces of
her phantom sadness,
the dark blots
of hemorrhaged shadows
that she became that night.
The night she broke her bridle
the death of the universe
raged in her,
the closing fist
of the final fear,
the last flailings
of the drowning sun.
And when she returned
in the morning,
the sky was perfectly cloudless,
and the sun, impossibly,
returned with her.
And her soul was so calm
as it hummed in the
warm void of the day.
And I saw that
I’d have to start my garden
all over again.
Copyright Ricky Barrow 2014
I especially love the imagery in this one – every line.