PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

He names me Alchemist 

I remember things,

dirty as they are,

and I lift the veil

never waving a hand 

It’s not really magic. 

It‘s more like a disciplined act:

the art of grieving without recognition 

the mastery of hiding the pieces

but sometimes I am a woman 

wearing white laced lingerie - 

you can see

right through the holes 

to the bottom of me

And it’s rotting away,

however fragrant I make it seem,

it is still decay

like mud caked quartz-

extraordinary when wiped cleaned

but still, it comes from a place that

is chaotic

I don‘t really know. 

maybe I could possess

this small gift

of alchemy

as he says. 

Depends on the angle of

perception

We all regress

in the end anyway

conditioned only to see what we want to see