Dans Le Jardin

I used to write a lot of poetry. Buttloads, even. Though some of it was more stream of conscious and/or uber flowery journal entries, I sorta branded it all as poetry.

I have no idea what to do with it now. Seems a waste to leave it on a defunct blog that the public can’t peruse anyway. So I might just bring some of it here, from time to time. At least until I can figure out what I want to do with it all.

SO, for possibly a limited time only, here’s something. Might be poetry. Might just be a fucked up journal entry. Definitely NOT a haiku.

dans le jardin~

“We pass in these corridors as strangers
in the courtyard, the only greetings between
us being the whisper of our capes in the
midnight breeze. Our solo quests for unity
are a farce that we engage in with fierce
deception. And at one time, I know, I would’ve
turned to you. In the black, I could’ve
mistaken you for someone who’d give a fuck.

The tree spews from the ground in the
center of the courtyard, its branches heavy
with pestilence-tainted fruits, gleaming gold
and red even in the moonlight, offering a
temptation too elicit to speak of aloud.
We both stood under the girth of its foliage,
and stared up into the flesh of the tree, deciding
quietly upon the blooms of our undoing, and then,
after plucking off our chosen delights, closed our
eyes and raised our heads as the tree bled in mourning.

The fruit is ripe with want and concupiscence, and the
juice runs down our chins, thick and red as fresh blood.
Welcoming the original sin, we grasp at each other
blindly in the falling black. The thunder seizes us, storms
assailing and condemning our wanton instincts.
In anathematizing fury the garden dispels us; thorns
trailing the paths into Infernos are writhing and reaching
as we stumble down the vast corridor again. Strangers.
We are together alone. And so, without conscious,
I turned to you.

But you were never someone who could give a fuck.
So I turned away.”

©2005 J.Wolfe

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