Pain…

…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…

70’s Santa

The turn off route 93 had been slight

This is what I remember of the night.

There had been no threadbare child’s strap to encase my dreams.

There had been no traveling movie…to allow normal to be sane.

I remember those star crusted memories as though, I could achieve, I could achieve, I could achieve.

After coming from nap time with Santa and no delivered good to be had.

Remember, remember, the polka dot, the low fashion, the plaid.

Adorable in strawberry blonde.

Cute with a nose like a knob.

These days I do not allow myself to be host.

Santa, with perception, can now be a ghost.

Tracing the Formica

Boscawen NH

The Formica traced a trail of ruddy tears…to an unnamed room.

Deep inside the tomb…

my oblique glasses held visions of dull switch blades.

Daggers dancing through the corners of my soul like,

bloody sugar canes sent to alleviate my decay.

Sliding between the ceramic maze…

a hell to be razed.

Alas, the vow,

little do your tiny demons know,

it was written long ago,

upon a wall made of cork…

‘straight jackets cannot subdue the heart.’

the Good Mother

Marion Post Wolcott

There had been placid times when the good mother gave me trust.

Faith held together with duct tape and the watered down glue of stability.

The stroke of my cheek while facing the end of times were infrequent and often malignant.

I often wonder had the sterile touch of veiled angels been too much.

Too much to transfix my childish mind to what was kind.

Had I ever truly had a mother.

A mother to curl into with my twisted body and troubled mind.

With purity dug in deep into blood and tears,had she wanted, needed, another.

Mum

Hurt has turned ghosts to gold

Newborns into antiquated entities

I come and go from the waters, time and time again

Yet, I cannot walk on

Questions to my state of mind

Part and particle of the disease…not the cure