"dehiscence" poems - Hello Poetry

Altered by the winds laced with a threnody tune, life in the northern woods will never be the same without its bloom. The deceased puppet master continues to pull the strings of the dehiscence heart, one of this game is forced to take part. The ears of an indecisive mind take in the plaintive sound, which provides an ongoing reminder of how these feet are forever bound to this ground. With the chances of escaping this monochromatic box slims, one might begin to take a swim. The ideal way of living becomes a compromise, the old personality leaves only the eyes. Shed away in a abscission fashion, and along with that goes all the passion. Sitting down to confabulate with a higher knowledge, carry on the dreams of going to college. Storybook barriers leave no saltant mood. Being passed by society is quite rude. A misnomer indeed, being labeled wrong because of greed. Hunger of such has taken a life, of one upon a lake that was never a wife. Letters that hold such wicked silence, that can never be undone even with science. This blue body surrounded by an invisible malediction, or maybe that is all just fiction. He has nothing left from his unmanly lies, upon keeping secrets he thinks he is wise. Knowing it all is never enough, but with an abecedarian brain on might just call it a bluff. Eventually farewells must be given without hate, and one might hope to return as if all was in a somniferous state.

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Jun 15, 2013

Jun 15, 2013 at 11:57 PM UTC

danielle-thornton

Forgotten Words

Altered by the winds laced with a threnody tune, life in the northern woods will never be the same without its bloom. The deceased puppet master continues to pull the strings of the dehiscence heart, one of this game is forced to take part. The ears of an indecisive mind take in the plaintive sound, which provides an ongoing reminder of how these feet are forever bound to this ground. With the chances of escaping this monochromatic box slims, one might begin to take a swim. The ideal way of living becomes a compromise, the old personality leaves only the eyes. Shed away in a abscission fashion, and along with that goes all the passion. Sitting down to confabulate with a higher knowledge, carry on the dreams of going to college. Storybook barriers leave no saltant mood. Being passed by society is quite rude. A misnomer indeed, being labeled wrong because of greed. Hunger of such has taken a life, of one upon a lake that was never a wife. Letters that hold such wicked silence, that can never be undone even with science. This blue body surrounded by an invisible malediction, or maybe that is all just fiction. He has nothing left from his unmanly lies, upon keeping secrets he thinks he is wise. Knowing it all is never enough, but with an abecedarian brain on might just call it a bluff. Eventually farewells must be given without hate, and one might hope to return as if all was in a somniferous state.

30

I remember when I was six there was a hint of it even then. I was six. Six and already acting as if! trying to catch a setting sun. As if a last apricot snapped of its thin, pendulant node, were falling into abscission, and the pulp, and the flame orange flesh, and the seeds about to rupture. Would lay an open hand, one hand (I think my right)—lay it on the frail bark of a tree outside, together, alone. As if even then asking the skin of what rises and holds organic and tall the living and strong not to peel away leave me. As if I thought I don’t know who was beyond, watching. But laid it there, still, all popely and saintly and, really, quite foolishly. I was six. Six, and wondered, had somebody watched? I don’t remember what I wanted. But a trace of something important remains ruptured in me. As if all along I had known not to hold out the hands. Known I am six-teen years later.

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Mar 27, 2012

Mar 27, 2012 at 5:47 PM UTC

daniello

At Six, Dehiscence

I remember when I was six there was a hint of it even then. I was six. Six and already acting as if! trying to catch a setting sun. As if a last apricot snapped of its thin, pendulant node, were falling into abscission, and the pulp, and the flame orange flesh, and the seeds about to rupture. Would lay an open hand, one hand (I think my right)—lay it on the frail bark of a tree outside, together, alone. As if even then asking the skin of what rises and holds organic and tall the living and strong not to peel away leave me. As if I thought I don’t know who was beyond, watching. But laid it there, still, all popely and saintly and, really, quite foolishly. I was six. Six, and wondered, had somebody watched? I don’t remember what I wanted. But a trace of something important remains ruptured in me. As if all along I had known not to hold out the hands. Known I am six-teen years later.

43

There. Right below my sternum, That’s where you want to make the incision. Cut it out of me, please. I want to see if this dark thing inside of me Is as ugly as it feels.

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Feb 10, 2023

Feb 10, 2023 at 4:43 AM UTC

lost-girl

Dehiscence

There. Right below my sternum, That’s where you want to make the incision. Cut it out of me, please. I want to see if this dark thing inside of me Is as ugly as it feels.

6

Dehiscence of war, The spent shell is the split gourd. Dry fruit of dry years.

0

May 12, 2019

May 12, 2019 at 1:41 AM UTC

ChrisSaitta

[Dry Fruit of War]

Dehiscence of war, The spent shell is the split gourd. Dry fruit of dry years.

3