thunder comes up over the hollow and lays down in the street
circles my yard and peaks at my feet
I try to wake my loved one to make her aware
then I realize that beside me she lays…rumpled here and there
to stay at home or not
no matter… the thunder rounds herself up
she will always be near
I stagger around in my thoughts…as if an open book
as if a locked attic with no key and skeletons that wish to be free
My panic sets in whether day or night
In small snippets I remember the daffodils, the farmland, the rebirth, the light
In small, form fit spaces…this is where the head and the heart fight
I assume nature is alarmed, possibly having already panicked years before
Perhaps, the reason for a locked attic door
…condensed in the snow…as dark and sorrowful as the northern wind will blow…
…only the truth of distrust lies in the shadows…distant as a mother’s touch…
…pain knows I am a fool…no one understands this…better than I do…
…this discomfort…the blink of an icy pond…no longer lingered upon…
…agony taunts me…reminds me of who I used to be…
…pain is a constantly unraveling thread to the tapestry of my soul…
the Mills, Franklin NH
Don’t want to walk through the pain.
But the want…
are not the same.
There is no religion to the agony.
There is no need for the ache’s shame.
only the want remains.
Only remains a cast of shadow in the day.
The day I stop…
walking through the pain.
I look and lock down these stairs to the catacombs.
I understand as a stumble, there will never be freedom.
The intertwined pine and oak…lamented before me alludes to a place ‘never to be.’
Hatred and swinging leather belts.
Love mixed with skin pelts.
I write shortly of incidents others have felt.
Thus, I donate my life to disrepair.
To tiled and titled adults without a care.
Tell me now,
how polyester made life light?
Why the campfire of want…became hell?