#inflammation
Your name wrung
between the lines of
fresher tender cuts.
Brushing a slower finger
over dusty pages,
disturbing untold stories
that was long untouched.
Your name is
the tap-tap of hammer nails
and the crimson consummator.
The barricading name,
of the mesmeric temple of apologies
molded by unequivocal agony and anger
lying in the bleak moor
laced with your remnants.
My mind is left shambled on the floor,
shards of memories
now leaking as exudate
am I being inflamed?
If I were to paint this across the canvas,
it’d be red, blue then purple
a galaxy with mismatched constellations
on a rippled fabric of night skies.
If I were to ink you to paper,
tracing you in black
you’d diffuse, cry and leak
into a pool of red,
dripping at the edge of the paper.
You are the cactus
pricking with every temptation.
The one engrained in my figmentation
wrapped in lessons
coloring the pigmentation of my skin
with various hues.
You are the open wound
with the fabricated scab.
You are the name
that rings inside my head,
echoing through my memories
trembling shakes, tremors
through the cronies
widening the past a little
more within me.
Sep 13, 2019
Sep 13, 2019 at 2:59 PM UTC
I make low inflammation choices.
At the dinner table and at the snack bar, I keep my back straight when I’m driving in cars. I stop drinking after a couple glasses of wine, I rarely breach my usual bed time.
Inflammation is waiting for me to leave my path, an ache in my guts, a pain in my ***
Growing old takes a well laid plan. We are not gods, we are merely humans!
Aug 1, 2025
Aug 1, 2025 at 7:51 AM UTC