the letters

king crimson'dan;

with quill and silver knife
she carved a poison pen
wrote to her lover's wife:
"your husband's seed has fed my flesh".

as if a leper's face
that tainted letter graced
the wife with choke-stone throat
ran to the day with tear-blind eyes.

impaled on nails of ice
and raked with emerald fire
the wife with soul of snow
with steady hands begins to write:

"i'm still, i need no life
to serve on boys and men
what's mine was yours is dead
i take my leave of mortal flesh"

cohen'den.

"You never liked to get
The letters that I sent.
But now you've got the gist
Of what my letters meant.
You're reading them again,
The ones you didn't burn.
You press them to your lips,
My pages of concern.
I said there'd been a flood.
I said there's nothing left.
I hoped that you would come.
I gave you my address.
Your story was so long,
The plot was so intense,
It took you years to cross
The lines of self-defense.
The wounded forms appear:
The loss, the full extent;
And simple kindness here,
The solitude of strength.
You walk into my room.
You stand there at my desk,
Begin your letter to
The one who's coming next."