Terminal Wound
Anger, tears, a boiling cauldron,
Seething with steam from a waterless pot.
Anguish, pain, a reckless defending,
Festering wound from a weaponless shot.
Someone please send for the surgeon; someone please send for the knife.
If only a piercing incision, could carve out this cancer of strife.
Weeping, Shame, a tangled regret,
Choked on the lips, just an unspoken thought.
Sorrow, fear, itself a reprisal,
The furnace is cold but the coals are still hot.
No surgeon can vent this word poison; no knife can stay this grim fate.
The serum must come from the venom, and soon... for it's almost too late.
- Flint McGlaughlin
Comments
Seeds Of Want
Seeds of want planted in, watered by my weakness.
A futile germination, secret in the darkness.
Perceived and felt in springing forth,
Cushioned, nurtured, needing.
Guilty hiding of the swell,
choking, hiding, pleading.
Can I slay this hope, this shoot
So verdant, green and new?
Can I ignite and burn this chaff
before the harvest’s through?
Fire in the bosom, taken in, consuming.
Contained and held this Godly fire
Purging, purifying.
From this smelt is fashioned freedom
Saving from the lie.
With smoky garments, blackened face
It is I who die.
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Posted by: S | May 15, 2009 12:53 AM