IN MY HIDING PLACE

IN MY HIDING PLACE

In my hiding place, secluded from those who say they love me,
In this cozy space, apart from the ones who once held my heart.
I long for their forgiveness, but I know not where to start.

The relentless rain of regret pours down my cheeks like a flurry.
The world wants my soul, but I'm in no hurry to give it.

The trespassers want my castle, like knights of yore they besiege it.
My enemies want my heart, like bloodsuckers they come and they bleed it.

I am drifting, lonely as a withered leaf,
Stripped of my pride and of what's underneath,
Detritus and rusted metal.

My foot lunges for the brake pedal,
But slowly I come crashing,
Running through the stoplights
And the red that they keep flashing.

My hands they try in vain to steer,
But stiff and stained and rusted by the rain,
I submit to my fate, ruined and murdered here.

Here in the dark castle, I submit to my chains,
To the fabled past I stick and adhere.
It has not been my finest decade,
Nor my finest year.

And the post-it note I left for you, 
Taped with a rose to your back door,
Is written in some foreign tongue
And the petals stain your hardwood floor.

There is nothing left but to mourn your loss,
I lay here stretched upon my cross,
Here in my hiding place,
Secluded from you who say you love me.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2014
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

SUITE OF TEARS

SUITE OF TEARS

Enter, my lover fair, into my suite of tears.
Linger not with hesitation on the threshold.
Taste with me the bitter bile of wasted years,
Let my rooms of saline welcome you into their fold.

I am the proprietor of this house of ill repute,
Whose halls are filled with skeletons
With tongues carved out and mute.
I am the cursed curator of this house of fallen cards,
Whose antique lamps where armies camp,
Lie in broken shards.

Enter, my loving friends, into this room of gloom,
Where the witches scratch their itches,
And apply their foul perfume.
Come with entrance fee in hand,
Pay the high inflated cost,
For space is at a premium,
And he who hesitates is lost.
I am hellbent on collecting rent,
So come and grease my bloodstained hands,
While I sit all bent and broken,
Like rusted contraband.

And fill up my well with tears of your own,
For we are all one in our sorrow.
Enter into my suite of tears,
Give no thought for the morrow.
I am the caretaker of this most divine display,
So let its awful ugliness carry you away.
And though there is a bird bath,
Standing tall in the knee high grass,
It will never wash away your wounds,
Or change how the die is cast.

Enter my lover fair, into my wondrous, pitch dark bower,
For the summer night is dark and damp,
And now is the witching hour.
Bring into my suite of tears,
A vase with the blackest flowers.
Sing to me a silent dirge from days that have grown cold,
And let my rooms of saline welcome you into their fold.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2014
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED