Birth of a Poet(edit) no new title yet

[brynmawr1]

What it is to be
born with the sun
under a rose-dusted sky

caught within a waking
dream.  A mind, opened,
by that cutting light,   

mysterious; glimpsing
the shadowed edges
of what exists at the seams
of the world.

Left standing alone
before the mirror,
windows unshaded

from whittling eyes that cut
to the heartwood,
penknives too sharp.

Trimmed, shaped, made 
beautiful? Bleeding

self in that birthing.
The page red with it;
the gore of darlings
slickening the floor.

What mercy to drown
letting it fill the lungs,
reclaiming it as your own.

To live in that hunger
for your own blood.

What it is to be
born with the sun
under a rose-dusted sky
 
caught between the dream
and not, a mind split
by that cutting light, 
 
mysterious; a glimpse 
of shadowed edges,
what exists at the seams
of the world.
 
Alone, standing revealed
before the mirror, 
windows unshaded.
 
Then whittled.
Cut to find the heartwood,
their penknives so sharp;
trimmed, shaped, made beautiful?
Something reborn.
 
To bleed
in that birthing.
 
To find that hunger
for your own blood.