one catastrophic line
wound around my throat
the razor wire brambles ran
like ivy on dead porches
strangling the boards and bones
creeping shards of sundering cold
frayed every quaking nerve
from the sanctity of skin
you left me here in ribbons
left me here
and this profane bouquet
withering on the floor
all of the thorns purged
that I would rather bleed to death against
than a thousand maudlin words
perfumed with gasoline
concussed and warring I shook
for necessary surgery
the lungs locked and pushed aside
if you had reached in
with violent nails and wrenched
the ribs from beneath my breast
and lighted candles in the walls
to glance this gasping heart
I think I could have then with you
wearing me on your hands
but you were only so
very sorry
-
Author:
Heather T (
Offline) - Published: June 10th, 2017 17:19
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 28
Offline)
Comments4
A lot of confrontation angst and anger but what of the sorry part .
Sometimes sorry just doesn't come with enough stitches. It didn't that day. Through time and purposing to forgive, sometimes hourly, it was healed.
My hope is that this poem provided some release from the experience for you, Heather. Yes, we've all been through it to one degree or another, in one way or another. Isn't that why we're here?
I suppose that's the truth, Louis. It's an old wound though, eight years gone. We're good now and that's what matters. I thank God for that.
Wounds like this heal only with slow and heartwrenching attendance to the word called forgive - your imagery sinks deeply into this reader's core - thanks for sharing this painful snapshot of yesteryear Heather.
That is truth. Forgiveness on purpose. Appreciate your kind reply.
I very much enjoyed reading this! It's a very deep, engaging write
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