phantom limb,
my lamb has gone missing,
my wool and warmth taken from me,
white and cream silk billows in the wind,
my head turning to tell you,
of the gifts that the earth presents to me,
the grass birthing fruitful plants in which people lay,
with stories to tell through lips caressed in love yet desolation,
but now, only residual fantasy conversation is left,
its as if the limb was stolen,
taken a part of my frame and left a void,
a house with no door,
to create but with what intent ?
what is it to make and love, if not to share with you?
Wrenches turn and twist the last bolts of brittle skeleton,
in aim to adjust to the loss of heart,
making room for more fantasy
a spectre now lives in my skeleton,
reining up the horses for fight,
you are that spectre.