27 September, 2010
The day is like the soft tissue
coating the throat; soothing like mother’s milk.
And Fury is like acid crawling up
from your stomach, escaping the intestines and waiting
to erupt between winter-dried lips.
I would sit in bed and let the bile drip.
Drip like rain droplets onto the pillows,
soaking in between tear streams,
committing suicide from cold cheeks.
My angst slips out sullenly. Waiting
like gasoline for fire to spark or an explosion to spread
between legs clasped tightly if love lay in them again.
The rage, the wrath, the madness
creaks like wooden Victorian floor boards.
I wonder why the pain doesn’t hurt.
Why? When my patience has been murdered?
My hope has been cut up, burned up,
and rapped with a bow.
Perhaps I could mail it away to someone in need,
seeing how I only feed every mouth
of despair eating at me.
Waiting between the hours, I sit silent. -Witnessing
my inner peace running away on the wind.
Running away from me.
I could sit by the fire for hours
rubbing scarred hands together,
but the heat from the love won’t ever sink in.
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