Poetry – Page 5

Myth Maker by Jamie

Myth cradles against my ear like a conch,
Listening to the fog between

    My ears, looking for survivors.
    It whispers my own secrets back-

An echo that palms my face, cradles
Me like a mother should - does myth

    Make mother, or mother make myth?
    The conch mimes the mother 

Shaped cavity in my mind, aiming
For precious gems that wail

    Of self-pity in a deranged
    Kind of shade.

My mouth fills with blood
Oranges, citrus the cloying smell

    Of myth making.