October 12, 2021
 |  30 Comments

A sanguine collector, ache, comes often;
seeking to swallow what remains of a frosted heart
in one breath,
its venom thickening down the throat,
smearing rosier lips with mace— I have lost count,
as the clock strikes with precision,
the number of times
its predatory claws have made their way in, exploring
all that resides within; the sweet,
the sour and buried, creating a symphony that flows freely,
similar to cicada storms, to blueberry tinted kisses—
do we ever forget?

October, I give, but the quantity that I receive doubles;
silvered, this ache consumes,
urges me awake in the middle of the night,
in balanced harmony of virtue and savage sin—
I am human, feel me burn with fellowship
and with each poem,
naked realization, I offer not judgment but consolation—
proclaim me as assassin,
as I sift through broken hopes with a view
to rehabilitate; nothing else soothes, knowing
the other is torn.

I am somewhat conscious,
somewhat familiar with variations of an ache dulled,
the way we destroy ourselves is second to none,
a searing song
too visceral to smother, do we walk towards it in thirst,
in whisper, in confession, or in emotions unresolved?
Some days it hits hard, some days soft,
like gusts of wind,
like caffeinated tears, like foregone conclusions, in a way
when autumn leaves swirl in crimson-gold shades—
I am convinced
that ache exists to ultimately cleanse with its touch,
a little wicked, but in many ways wondrous.

 

 

 

 

Photo credits: Crop florists making floral arrangement by Amina Filkins

Ingrid hosts at dVerse Pub and invites us to revisit a time in life
when we have felt pain and come out of the other side stronger.
Come join us! 💝

Posted for Poetics: from a place of pain @dVerse Poets Pub