Apr 2016
Which hurt is greater?
Is it the fall from virtue and descent into madness,
where nerves are fully recognizant of an escalating torment
caused by the imposed absorption of each stinging needle,
where the active mind possesses complete comprehension
of the delicate innocence inherent in spirit and individuality?
Or is the true injury created when the biting freeze
finally penetrates through skin and bone,
creeping into vital organs of existence,
numbing the senses, slowing functionality,
tempting with graceful rewards the soul to carefully enter
into nightmarish sleep filled with related frozen carcasses?
No. The greater hurt is felt during the resurrection of spirit –
when the overwhelming barrage of thunderous rain,
crushing hurricanes of agonizing recollections,
create a thaw in the protective safety of barricaded sensitivity.
Thick ice covering the immense lake of uncertainty begins to melt;
the chimera of safe passage over unsteady waters dissipates.
Then the feeble heart is left to drown in sorrow and panic.
Old wounds, formerly numb, awaken with prickling heat,
memories of betraying constraints and adversity.
Unable to see the source through the blackened fog,
counterfeit thoughts of exaggerated truths abound:
Is it a lie? Is the need for sympathy greater than integrity?
But truth will no longer be constrained by blind adherence;
the waters of valor and virtue must flow again.
Verity and invention collide with booming force
and the healing spirit feels the formidable winds of anger unrestrained-
ugly, deafening, painful, and necessary for acceptance.
Somehow through this torment of perceived destruction,
through the bitter tempest of denial’s end,
the melting of all that is familiar,
somehow through all the chilling disquiet and daunting tumult
leagues of tender buds surface,
searching for light of day and moisture from the weakening storm.
Slowly, clouds begin to part and nourishment becomes available.
Life grows, colors deepen, and warmth spreads.
It is then that the still heart beats with vigor,
strength is recognized and gratification restored,
and a letting go of the greater hurt is complete.
Kerry Ann Herrmann
Is it the fall from virtue and descent into madness,
where nerves are fully recognizant of an escalating torment
caused by the imposed absorption of each stinging needle,
where the active mind possesses complete comprehension
of the delicate innocence inherent in spirit and individuality?
Or is the true injury created when the biting freeze
finally penetrates through skin and bone,
creeping into vital organs of existence,
numbing the senses, slowing functionality,
tempting with graceful rewards the soul to carefully enter
into nightmarish sleep filled with related frozen carcasses?
No. The greater hurt is felt during the resurrection of spirit –
when the overwhelming barrage of thunderous rain,
crushing hurricanes of agonizing recollections,
create a thaw in the protective safety of barricaded sensitivity.
Thick ice covering the immense lake of uncertainty begins to melt;
the chimera of safe passage over unsteady waters dissipates.
Then the feeble heart is left to drown in sorrow and panic.
Old wounds, formerly numb, awaken with prickling heat,
memories of betraying constraints and adversity.
Unable to see the source through the blackened fog,
counterfeit thoughts of exaggerated truths abound:
Is it a lie? Is the need for sympathy greater than integrity?
But truth will no longer be constrained by blind adherence;
the waters of valor and virtue must flow again.
Verity and invention collide with booming force
and the healing spirit feels the formidable winds of anger unrestrained-
ugly, deafening, painful, and necessary for acceptance.
Somehow through this torment of perceived destruction,
through the bitter tempest of denial’s end,
the melting of all that is familiar,
somehow through all the chilling disquiet and daunting tumult
leagues of tender buds surface,
searching for light of day and moisture from the weakening storm.
Slowly, clouds begin to part and nourishment becomes available.
Life grows, colors deepen, and warmth spreads.
It is then that the still heart beats with vigor,
strength is recognized and gratification restored,
and a letting go of the greater hurt is complete.
Kerry Ann Herrmann
I am not really a poet, I just like to write as a way of venting. I am amazed by the incredible talent here at hellopoetry.com. I don't expect to receive any recognition for my poetry... But it is my hope that there is some meaning to it beyond the limits of my own life experiences. Thank you for allowing me to share.
