I don’t really know you
shame blossoms around me
I am unable to forgive
give you the years lost.
A woman makes her way across the divide
in the valley of memory,
Dark bats fly out of the corners of her eyes.
Pain remains dripping from the door of
the past she has just closed.
She’s not forgotten the way she felt
nor what fears have lurked and led her to this.
How does one describe it?
Those nightmares that come at sunrise.
The grain has been scattered.
Pour the brine and the salt on the land.
Next season will bring its emotional toil, and we will harvest.
A long time away from now, she may
fall in love.
She cleaves way the silence
That once made the summer so cold.
The hum of loneliness
That grows past every great hurt
and makes her swallow her childhood.
Unfolding and becoming
the life that escapes the whisper
the thoughts that mold for days.
my art arrives in bandages.
reddened with the color of
mixed media on paper,
art anesthetic administered
by the pen.
Into the conscious stream, the
inexhaustible intrigue, the
balm to bind the wounds,
the brute blackness about us.
My eyes are filled,
dark tears of you,
of me, my soul,