(T)horns

Sticking out unruly
Torn from simple urges
Forlorn wants and needs
Matured in the darkness

The spots of the leopard
I wonder how they keep appearing
On my head, and on my back
With no twins missing

Shy of one step
One push ahead
Holding my dark, my filth, my wrath
Sprouting horns, claws, wings
Not of serenity
But of capture

Blossoms of blood, engorged
Heave and rupture the heavens
Rip a taste from pink clouds
Sweet, ripe, and succulent

T(horns)
Driven deep inside
Witnessed and regarded
With a thousand eyes

I am forgetting all of you
With the same type of seeing
That widens at recognition
Of what’s not so strange

Though I am a stranger
What given – returned
If not each dusk then only once
As I wonder at scars

T(horns) removed one by one
With wails, cries, and laughter
Conserved, sculpted, ready for murder
With a prayer for no use
But at the helm, remembered

With likeness of an urchin
Wishing to be touched
My skin made of flames
And an ice-shaped heart
Can you take it?

Suspicious of dawn
As dreams unfold
Some vanish, some lie in wait
Sparing promises
And I weep for the earth
What’s mine of it

A great flood
With carmine attractions
Wash me away
Bring me the day
Hear me your say
As my (t)horns light the way

(T)horns – A poem written by Ágoston Hajnal