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Grace Jun 2015
I wish letting go was easy
A balloon slipping
Through childrens fingertips
Sands that slide easily
From unclenched fists

To feel lighter again
Rid of the constant pressures
Pounding on my chest
Brought back to sea level again

But I am an anchor
Captive to this ship
Depths beneath you
The pressure only thickens
I am dead weight
To be discarded
Whenever you see fit
ryn Sep 2014
These hands have clawed with blind eyes
Chipped nails on fingers working on knots and ties

Fingers that recklessly point to reproaches and blames
Never to self, righteousness through arrogant claims

Now aware, these palms have covered my face in contempt
For they've partook in activities; indulgent and unkempt

Rubbed skin raw on life's coarse sandpaper
Ever searching for the coming of the unanticipated saviour

Broken flesh hopeful for newly formed skin
Like tattered souls pleading for absolution of sin

Only skin deep but unfavourable experiences do fester
Expecting the proverbial infection to blow over

Here they are, held unclenched and riddled with pocks
Weathered and sore from time's infinite mocks

Maybe thereafter, will be awaited healing
Perhaps soon after, I will be forgiving

See now... Hands faced up, parted as halves
Asking not for alms but instead your acceptance as salve

Take into yours, these knackered, gnarled up palms
Let your porcelain-like touch relieve like life reforming balm

Should'st thou, in grip of dread disease,
Foresee the day when thou must die,
With no more hope of life or ease,
But only, lingering, to lie
While torturing hours go slowly by;
Thy brain awake, thy nerves alive
To thine extremest agony,
And all in vain to rave or strive: —
O my beloved, if this should be,
Call me — and I will set thee free.


******! And thou to judgment hurled —
Cut off from some few days of grace —
Thus will it be to that hard world
Which fits one law to every case,
And dooms all rebels to disgrace.
But to us twain, who stand above
Conventioned rules, unbound, unclassed,
A solemn sacrament of love,
More true than kisses in the past —
Love's costliest tribute, and the last.


Thy grateful hand, unclenched, shall seek
The hand that gave thee thy release;
Thy darkening eyes shall dumbly speak
Of scorching pangs that sink and cease —
Of anguish drowned in rest and peace.
And I that terrible farewell,
Despairing but content, shall take,
Knowing that I have served thee well —
I, that would dare the rack and stake,
The flames of hell, for thy dear sake.


The law may hang me for my crime,
Just or unjust, I'll not complain.
'Twere better than to live my time
Bereaved and broken, and to wane,
Slow inch by inch, in useless pain;
Alone, unhelped, uncomforted,
In mine own last extremity;
No faithful lover by my bed
To do what thou would'st do for me.
And I shall want to die with thee.
Tommy Randell May 2017
Poetry is a self-help group
Poetry is a multi-gender soup
Poetry is a smoothie of feelings
Poetry is a room without ceilings
Poetry is a bish-bash-bosh
Poetry is submitting to the cosh
Poetry is seeing it all through reflection
Poetry is a snapshot of invention
Poetry is Language that kidnaps sound
Poetry is uncertainty where Truth is found
Poetry is
            Do I really think that?
Poetry is a list of righteous facts
Poetry is trite spoken out loud
Poetry is bread passed around
Poetry is drowning in ancient woes
Poetry is sometimes the way life goes
Poetry is no bigger than one person rapping
Poetry is freebase, it is ****, it is fapping
Poetry is an attempt at hurt-healing
Poetry is the heart cart-wheeling
Poetry is
            My scream for attention!
Poetry is that thing not to be mentioned
Poetry is of course an eleven
Poetry is a gun not a weapon
Poetry is what we read for ourselves
Poetry is our dying slowly on shelves
Poetry is legally disenfranchised on walls
Poetry is heard by kicking silence in the *****
Poetry is Life getting revenge
Poetry is Justice with fists unclenched
Poetry is
            Pause for effect …
Poetry is expression unchecked
Poetry is unravelling the thread
Poetry is the road ahead
Poetry is giving away the Gold
Poetry is offered freely not sold
Poetry is a web of connection
Poetry is a manifesto of intention
Poetry is not being alone
Poetry is finally saying Hello
Poetry is

            HELLO POETRY

Tommy Randell 2017 05 16 01:54 BST
Finally Nailed It !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
A collaboration between Elisa Maria Argiro and SG Holter.*

Dear feather. You fell on my heart.
I keep you on my person now; pocket held;
An eternal companion.
As beautiful as you, I remind my
Thoughts to be.
I wake up as Buddha every day.                  
Peace is the corner stone of my breathing.

Dear Last Crescent Moon,
adorning Lord Shiva's brow,
smiling toward Morning Star
enjoying her sweet presence
in clearest predawn light.
She smiles too, drifting into feathery sleep.

Birdless flight, unclenched, un-
Clung to.
With this dew drop in my palm
I need no ocean to swim in.
How can Life's castle, with its wars and
Tragedies, hide within its
Towers of                                                          
Nois­e such quiet chambers?
Paper sails, bamboo, emerald waters.
Single feathers rest even when

From your outstretched palm,
sweet taste of morning touches
my tongue, oceanic dew drop
sharing itself across floating time.
An offering holding the last shining
starlight of this new morning. Drifting
now through limitless space,
finding words in our common language
on your yellow paper sails, we gaze down
from these towers of our ancient dreams,
emerald water below us waiting to catch
the falling feather.

Dear insight.
Light as the wind itself, you
Floated; fell on my heart.
Merged with heavy memories
Like paper balloons rising;
Tsunami of kamifusen
Render my whole being
Third-Eye-Hindsight sees me
Remembering nothing with
One or a hundred lifetimes
Finally now,
Even waking hours feel like

Dear Wisdom, Guardian Planet,
Buddha's radiance shining.
Thousand-Petaled Lotus
is now your own effulgent mind.
Smiling, eyes closed, feeling the
glowing kamifusen of magenta,
scarlet, turquoise, and yellow
floating above us,
we swim so deeply, diving down
into these warm emerald waters,
winking at the luminous fishes
dreaming all around us.
Copyrighted by ©SG Holter and ©Elisa Maria Argiro 
(as a collaborative poem)
bergljot Feb 2015
Your eyes resembled the troubled waters at sea,
always shimmering, churning, crashing, always making me wonder if you had sky blue galaxies trapped inside of you.

And your smile always looked as if it had been carved into your face with the same instrument used to make those marks on your arms.

I found comfort in your sadness, because that was the only time you were true to yourself.

I found comfort in your freedom. I always loved seeing you live carelessly, daringly. Insubordinate to anyone who tried to stop you.

Sometimes it worried me to see you scratch your skin after you cursed about destroying everything you touched.

Sometimes it worried me to see you lose yourself among the empty bottles of alcohol.

You were burdened with a heavy heart, and like the pupils in your eyes and the emotion in your smile and the sound of your laugh, it was vacant.

And all I could say was, maybe, just maybe, if you unclenched your fists you would've found that you were holding onto nothing.
There was a saviour
          Rarer than radium,
     Commoner than water, crueller than truth;
          Children kept from the sun
          Assembled at his tongue
     To hear the golden note turn in a groove,
Prisoners of wishes locked their eyes
In the jails and studies of his keyless smiles.

          The voice of children says
          From a lost wilderness
     There was calm to be done in his safe unrest,
          When hindering man hurt
          Man, animal, or bird
     We hid our fears in that murdering breath,
Silence, silence to do, when earth grew loud,
In lairs and asylums of the tremendous shout.

          There was glory to hear
          In the churches of his tears,
     Under his downy arm you sighed as he struck,
          O you who could not cry
          On to the ground when a man died
     Put a tear for joy in the unearthly flood
And laid your cheek against a cloud-formed shell:
Now in the dark there is only yourself and myself.

          Two proud, blacked brothers cry,
          Winter-locked side by side,
     To this inhospitable hollow year,
          O we who could not stir
          One lean sigh when we heard
     Greed on man beating near and fire neighbour
       But wailed and nested in the sky-blue wall
Now break a giant tear for the little known fall,

          For the drooping of homes
          That did not nurse our bones,
     Brave deaths of only ones but never found,
          Now see, alone in us,
          Our own true strangers' dust
     Ride through the doors of our unentered house.
Exiled in us we arouse the soft,
Unclenched, armless, silk and rough love that breaks all rocks.
Joe Bradley Jan 2013
A Stirring biomass, a grim river
Garrotted by mud and each rusted carcass
Dumped over the slow years -
'And we saw the metal of a woman,
A frothy corruption, naked and open,
we prised her from the mire, and saw the city
through the eyes of the sewer,'
The Lady from sludge,
your toady skin broke
as you flopped, nymph-like on board

Caved-in by the tumbling sky,
And air like leather. Dry in the throat.
The sweating walls spun his head,
And the cogs whirred to fast
To bite back. Space and time-blind,
He turns to the sepia city.
Like new life,
ready for the fall of man.

Through the river of time elapsed,
Churning up memory.
And there's the glitz, the cracking lips.
that bet on goodness.
'I remember being a girl - and my mother -
smiling but never sad -
I waited for her every morning'.

The forgotten root scratches out life
Underneath vast and forgotten hangers.
The lungs of the city shed their skin
To keep pace with the smog.
See what we all don't know.
And live where we all can't see.
He led her to a room with broken windows
and one swinging bulb,
She wasn't scared.

Dank Amazon.
the roots are wires,
sprawling for grip for the sulking trees
In the great ape eco-system
'I'm a cruel joke, don't you see?'
As her eyes slowly rolled.
'I'm sorry'
As her fists unclenched
'Im Sorry'
As her knees went limp
'I'm Sorry'

Belted by un-silent night
And below gridlocks of light
An I.C.1 male is being chased
By screaming vans, run rabbit
Down the hole and off you go.
And the hiss of 'one eight seven,
one eight seven' from the radio,
is scoring his run - as the pools on the floor,
neon-flashed burst open
in a booted shatter.

'And the time went by,
And I looked at your form
And I looked at your cuts
And you are the river
And one of its secrets, un-watered'.
Sorrow Nov 2012
Enough said.

You don't say
That one day
We could just start again.
There's a chance
Our jaws could be unclenched
A hope for unraveling.
You don't say
Hope counts for nothing
Because it does.
We can't say
Because everyone knows
And no one can live if its not off of lies.
I can't say
Everything will be alright.
Why don't you tell me?
Save a breath
Skip a step
Knowledge of the truth hasn't brought us very far
So bet on broken knees and ****** jeans
It's a death march to the beginning.
Run backwards after falling
And see what comes.
Stand behind this white line
Stare at the pavement
And believe.
They already left you behind.
of a fountain
to heaven
without understanding

false as a beach
a pearl on the lip
the blackness of a tear

the memory dies
a plate
held before each face
saying who am i

the moon

(fresh feet
in sawdust
rust before

the moon after all
ryn Oct 2016
Over the moon.
Counted stars
as I hurtled through time and space.

I had tasted the sweetness.
The spellbinding grasp of weightlessness
as I crested upon the peak of my ascent.
Felt free and overwhelmed that moment
where the universe and I collided...
And birthed the second.

I only had that second.

The second that spanned an eternity.
The second filled with abundant promise.
The second that unclenched my fist,
melted my heart,
and liberated my mind.

But gravity takes control
and that second dissolves as
quickly as it came.
Reality beckons almost gentle...
Like swaying palms in the night sea breeze.
Assuring me that I'll be back in my rightful place.

In this time...
And this space...
Joel Emmanuel Jul 2014
butterflies love the blood,
tumbling about in bellies,
whisk it away, the way we pray,
a bird being carried by a breeze,
lifted essence, manifested,
heart shade, finally, at ease,
signal came through,
translated to
sharpened claws,
unclenched jaws -
unthought it all while sober -

  you came as ocean, as breeze,
   as birds, as leaves,
   as hues and blues,
   sunshines and moons,
and you left as you pleased,

    opened my mouth wide to cry for you,
    praise you,
   love you, raise you above
  what I've said in silence,
  unbreak the trust I betrayed in private,

  you came as hearts, as people I've known,
  and stories never told, as whispers,
  as hugs, and as kisses,
  as melodies, repeatedly on my brain, as so,
absent of you,

      I came to know you:

butterflies love the blood,
dying slowly from the greed,
whisk it away, the way I pray,
would ask for your forgiveness,
but I know there is no need,

I feel you in the leaps
of knowing when to regret,
and when to let it be,
summon the tides stronger
aside dying suns, each day,
each night I pray for you to call upon me,
like you did when I was your favourite color,
pray for you to love the me now, and be sure of no other,

so if I adjust the pitch,
tune the sounds to form around
your wisdom, or pretty eyes,
maybe the melody will reach you again,

if not for love,
lost at sea,
then for truth,
and maybe friends we'll be,

no longer eclipsed by rumors
I'm writing and collecting some pieces of mine from previous years for a coming book/film project - this is a piece written to a guy I once knew and loved, we had a falling out because of some things that were said in our community back in 2010. Needless to say, this is not the first time I've written to him or about him - I still love him. And, I miss you, greatly.
Tori Jurdanus Apr 2012


Open your eyes for one in your life and realize that you are not perfect.
That by declaring such hurtful things, you are welcoming hypocracy with open arms.

You are armed with hatred and feed chaos that which you spent months saving from the gallows.

Step out of the shadows when you glance in the mirror to see yourself as others do.
Prove that there is still something worth seeing rather than inflicting
That worthless feeling on everyone you meet.



I'm not alright.
I never claimed to say I was or am or will become

After you've unclenched your hands from ringing me dry of love and beating me senseless.

Now, step back and look at the mess you've left with destruction and pain
For each life you've touched.



Cease building your walls of defense up higher than your line of sight
And see that you are alone.
No one waits to hear your shouts and calls through the empty halls of the maze
You've trapped yourself within.

All that remains is the whisper of your own song,
Echoing back at you.

Some days you hold a bed of roses as only a state of mind
Promises seem to be forgotten in drifting pieces
Wondering how absence thinks of ways to make fonder
A heart that watches time burning bridges  
With faith that never ceases

So often an eager crowd serves a master of lonely places
You can hear them whispering words of praise
They are swirling in a powerful roundabout of illusion
Spent in rooms where the only way out
Cannot be paraphrased

Some have chosen their scars as seed to plant in rows
Then wonder why their fields are full of pain
Aside from sorrow can you imagine what could dwell
As rows of beautiful flowers in the heart
Where love remains

We hear I am sorry in a moment that passes forgotten
On days when a bed of roses does not exist
Should we choose to serve a master of lonely places
Or plant seeds of forgiveness in our fields
From unclenched fists
Copyright *Neva Flores @2011
Terry Collett Sep 2013
The silence of her frightens you. You stare at her laid out body and feel the want to hold her and kiss her but you know she’s dead and that she will feel nothing of your love again or sense your warmth. Drowned. So suddenly, so quickly. There one moment laughing and full of life and then gone. You gaze at her, at her flesh, at her fingernails. She kept herself so clean, so neat and tidy. The fingernails are trimmed exactly, no rough edges, no uneven part, all just so. Perfection. You run a finger along her ribs; sense the bones beneath the skin. So young, so fresh, so new. You lean forward and kiss her brow. Cold and still. The ginger hair with its boyish cut feels soft as if you had just washed and combed it. No, some other did that, combed it so. You stand back and take in each aspect of her. Her head is reclined upon a small pillow so that the head is tilted forward slightly; the eyes are closed as if in sleep, the pale eyelids like small smooth shells. You lean forward slowly and kiss each one. Secretly you hope that she wakes up and opens her eyes, but she doesn’t, she just lies there motionless, lifeless. You gave birth to her, brought her into the world, heard her first cries, saw her first clenched and unclenched fists, the first sign of her lips opening and closing seeking your *******. She seeks them no more. Seeks nothing now; all seeking is at an end. Her thin arms are laid down by her sides, the hands slightly turned outward as if to say, look at me now Mother, see I am perfected. Not yet a woman, but just about to enter that arena, just about to start her menstrual cycle, her first feeling of breast about to begin. All stopped before it could blossom; stilled in the bud. She has your nose, not her father’s. Your lips, not his. Those lips, wanting to kiss and be kissed, wanting once to ****, are still and chilled now. You want to kiss them, want them to open and her words to speak, her tongue to poke out at you as she would often in fun. The lips are sealed. She speaks no more, nor laughs nor cries. You cradled her when she had her first bleed, that frightened her, thought she was about to die. You ought to have warned her, have mentioned the facts of life to her, but you didn’t, you wanted her to remain your little girl, your baby, not become a woman, not grow up and become lost to you. You bite your lips. She is lost to you now. Lying there on that marble slab like so much wasted flesh. You cry. For the first time you begin to let the tears flow, let them just come, no holding them back now, no more pretence, no more trying to be brave, you feel them on your cheeks, the dampness, the eyes watering to such a degree that is becomes a blur. You wipe your eyes with your hand; want to see each aspect of her before they cover her over again with the sheet, before she’s taken from your sight forever. You can hear yourself cry now, the sound is wounding, as if someone tore at your soul. No one comes; they leave you alone, leave you to this last meeting, this final confrontation with your daughter. How still she is. So motionless. How pale, how thin. Why her? Why now? You lean close to her chest, put your ear there in the hope you may hear her heart beat, some small hope that the doctors are wrong, but there is no heartbeat, nothing. She looks at peace, you think. Yes, at peace. As if in sleep. She used to sleep like that when you would enter her room to see if she was all right at night and there she would be sleeping like this. As if nothing could disturb. Nothing to disturb. Nothing. Your tears have fallen on her cheek as if she was crying too. You wipe them gently away with your fingers. You whisper to her. You utter words in her ear. Save a place for me where you are, you say softly, keep a place for me to be with you. You want her to nod her head or open her lips and say, yes, Mother, of course I will. But she doesn’t, she just lies motionless and silent. The silence of her frightens you. You move away as the door opens and the others enter. They gather around dressed in black like you, as silent as she, but alive, thinking, feeling, sensing, unlike her. You wish you could be laying beside her now, side-by-side, close in death as you had been in life, hands touching. They begin to murmur, the others, gently whisper to you, time to go, time to leave her be. But you can’t, the effort of leaving tears at your very being, drags at your soul, pulls you into the darkness. Someone covers her with the white sheet and she is gone and all you see is the outline of perfection dressed in white like some bride only there is no wedding, no bridegroom, only the dark reaper, edging his way closer into the room as you are pulled gently away and out of the small room with the last image of your daughter sealed in your mind.
Some have aid this is a short story others that it is a prose poem. Eitherway, it has elements of both.
Tim Peetz Dec 2016
I dreamed I stood upon a little hill,
And at my feet there lay a ground, that seemed
Like a waste garden, flowering at its will
With buds and blossoms. There were pools that dreamed
Black and unruffled; there were white lilies
A few, and crocuses, and violets
Purple or pale, snake-like fritillaries
Scarce seen for the rank grass, and through green nets
Blue eyes of shy peryenche winked in the sun.
And there were curious flowers, before unknown,
Flowers that were stained with moonlight, or with shades
Of Nature's wilful moods; and here a one
That had drunk in the transitory tone
Of one brief moment in a sunset; blades
Of grass that in an hundred springs had been
Slowly but exquisitely nurtured by the stars,
And watered with the scented dew long cupped
In lilies, that for rays of sun had seen
Only God's glory, for never a sunrise mars
The luminous air of Heaven. Beyond, abrupt,
A grey stone wall, o'ergrown with velvet moss
Uprose; and gazing I stood long, all mazed
To see a place so strange, so sweet, so fair.
And as I stood and marvelled, lo! across
The garden came a youth; one hand he raised
To shield him from the sun, his wind-tossed hair
Was twined with flowers, and in his hand he bore
A purple bunch of bursting grapes, his eyes
Were clear as crystal, naked all was he,
White as the snow on pathless mountains frore,
Red were his lips as red wine-spilith that dyes
A marble floor, his brow chalcedony.
And he came near me, with his lips uncurled
And kind, and caught my hand and kissed my mouth,
And gave me grapes to eat, and said, 'Sweet friend,
Come I will show thee shadows of the world
And images of life. See from the South
Comes the pale pageant that hath never an end.'
And lo! within the garden of my dream
I saw two walking on a shining plain
Of golden light. The one did joyous seem
And fair and blooming, and a sweet refrain
Came from his lips; he sang of pretty maids
And joyous love of comely girl and boy,
His eyes were bright, and 'mid the dancing blades
Of golden grass his feet did trip for joy;
And in his hand he held an ivory lute
With strings of gold that were as maidens' hair,
And sang with voice as tuneful as a flute,
And round his neck three chains of roses were.
But he that was his comrade walked aside;
He was full sad and sweet, and his large eyes
Were strange with wondrous brightness, staring wide
With gazing; and he sighed with many sighs
That moved me, and his cheeks were wan and white
Like pallid lilies, and his lips were red
Like poppies, and his hands he clenched tight,
And yet again unclenched, and his head
Was wreathed with moon-flowers pale as lips of death.
A purple robe he wore, o'erwrought in gold
With the device of a great snake, whose breath
Was fiery flame: which when I did behold
I fell a-weeping, and I cried, 'Sweet youth,
Tell me why, sad and sighing, thou dost rove
These pleasant realms? I pray thee speak me sooth
What is thy name?' He said, 'My name is Love.'
Then straight the first did turn himself to me
And cried, 'He lieth, for his name is Shame,
But I am Love, and I was wont to be
Alone in this fair garden, till he came
Unasked by night; I am true Love, I fill
The hearts of boy and girl with mutual flame.'
Then sighing, said the other, 'Have thy will,
I am the Love that dare not speak its name.'
This poem was written by Lord Alfred Douglas and published in "The Chameleon" in December 1894.
b for short Mar 2014
The little boy unclenched
his sticky fist,
freeing his blue balloon
into the wide open sky.
"If you can fly,
then I shouldn't stop you,"
he said to the balloon
as it floated
                          ­           of
© Bitsy Sanders, March 2014
ella maria Aug 2013
Breath evaporates, vision clouds -
I drift, it is peaceful in the deep
I no longer feel like a burden; lumbering and pathetic  

My hands are soft,
my thighs milky and unclenched
my lips barely touched

Insomnia envelops me once more and I awake: 
this body is not ready
Paul F Clayton Jul 2012
The man with the plastic face
He has cloudy, liquid eyes
His fibre moustache and the thick dense fog
Strengthen his disguise

As he stops to check the time
His circuits start to glow
Then a figure comes to greet him
With a face he used to know

It's a face in a leather case
It's a face he used to own
It's a face that moved through time and space
And now he's come to take it home

There was a subtle smell of sulphur
As he made time stand still
He unclenched his plastic hand
To expose a yellow pill

Then his sub processor skipped
To where it all began
To a time before his micro chips
When he was still a man
Emily Paxton Nov 2013
I've spent half my time telling myself that you are a terrible person.
And with just a few sentences you've unlocked the chains around my heart.
The only thing keeping me from feeling what I once felt for you.
I find myself smiling, laughing
With you.
You caused me so much pain
So, so many tears.
The knots in my stomach I thought would never come unclenched.
But here I am laughing.
Betraying myself.
Breaking my own heart because it's fool me twice shame on me.
But if we're being honest, it's way past fool me twice.
More like fool me to the moon and back
Because that's the line that got me
To the moon and back
How romantic of you, to travel that far
Just for me
But we both know it was only pretty words
And the only reason you're here now is because even though we are as used to each other as the stars are the night sky,
I'm new.
We fell into the pattern of comfortable
And then we had our break
And the tears
And the silence
So the talking is new
The flirting is innocent, but oh so loaded
It's like a grenade, this fragile line we walk
One wrong word, one bold move and this pretty picture of happiness would be shattered
But I do love art
Especially the kind you and I make
The way we are together
How the tired sentences don't make sense, but neither of us will say goodnight.
Even now.
And maybe you're supposed to be there.
On my mind and in my life
Because I'm sure as hell not shaking you.
Albero Centrale Apr 2014
The waves roll in on a melted sunset,
Bringing new treasures onto land,
Tropical flowers bloom in the dew sewn grass,
Palm trees sway lazily in the gentle breeze,

Summer clouds dreamily float past in a daze,
***** scuttle, claws unclenched, relaxed for once,
All your worries have washed away,
Bottled, tangled, and rolled up into the ocean blue.
De La Rose<333
rosie Mar 2015
tell me how it felt to
watch her put her lips on another.
tell me how it felt to
fall on your knees, and
pray to God
half sober
with the kitchen light on.
tell me how it felt to
wake up the next afternoon
with beer stains on your collar
and ash in your teeth.
tell me how it felt to
stack those bricks around your bones and fight anyone
who got too close.
tell me how it felt
when you met me;
face softened, jaw unclenched,
pulse steady.
tell me how it felt
when you let me in,
how the fires felt
burning away every piece of armor shielding your weaknesses
and you were without water
to put it out.
tell me how it felt to
let me go;
did it leave you scorched in the flesh
and heavy in the head?

my apologies,
that was me.

Copyright ©  2015 Alyssa Packard
All Rights Reserved
Yael Zivan Oct 2014
The frozen river,
Grey mist and cold air escape from little thankful lungs.
I hold your hand.
Your body walks beside me,
Our shadows blend to one.
On the outside your figure looks unscathed,

Your face is bare and clean, your eyes look out clear and blank and mild.

Your hands unclenched and loosely draped,
arms sway slightly from side to side as ballast
for the steps you take.

Broken though. Broken so very deeply.

So that every step your body takes,

you hear the sound of glass.
The ***** and jangle, the music of an utterly shattered self.

I hear you breaking, though you drown it in your headphones.

As you pass me in the street I hear the squelch of your shoes.

Soaked in your own blood so your socks are brown like mud.

And your eyes, they are unguarded as you gentley start to topple.

Vortex of pleaing pain and weighted silence.

A tornado of anguish inside your iris.

As you inhale, your scars are whiter than your teeth.
You pull me in, You want to grab me and beg for help.

For mercy, for release, for suffocation. But you have no voice,

Your tears are gushing but they don't feel wet.

You're flat, and shiny and utterly destroyed,

Beyond repair. The damage is done.

And so I release the mirror,

till our shadows blend,

and the blood is dried,

and the pieces scattered, and the shattered mirror will rest at the bottom of the river.

Only I stand on the bridge.

One body, not two.

Nothing to remind me of you.

But the shattered hole
in the frozen river,
lX0st Nov 2018
You kiss me with your native tongue
Between sea salted breaths
Hints of starfruit and filth
Relish saintly dialects
Distant malaise clings to
Gritted teeth, unclenched
Your kaleidoscope soul
Vulnerable, drenched
Dripping liquified gold
Ornate in transcendental air
Upstaging whatever gods
May reside up there
claire Jul 2015
is the feeling
streaming inside you:
a rose rolled up
in a bloated tidal wave
amniotic, aglow

it tastes like gold and fury
like the atomic composition
of a dying star
and there is dedication there
an extraterrestrial fervor of love
which persists as tirelessly
as our dear moon circles this planet
even though it has been
pocked so many times by
unidentifiable things hurled
from the root of deep deep space,
even though it is marked
so physically and permanently
by the gravity
of its worship

you are full with it,
the rain-slicked gravel
the buds unclenched
the sonorous maskless
moment when you reached
for her
and she did not let you
go empty

your belly is aquiver
and your chest is unlatched
and god
billions of prisms could never catch
all this light
TC Dec 2013
I know when to quit.
late summer unclenched
for us, thrusts
of pixie-stick upshot,
your perfume
expands my chest,
thunderstick love,

spines and ribs
don’t do it justice
you raptured me
both ways to sunday
built me up to shatter jaws
car windows me
bar stool battered
you my perfect carpenter
smile with wooden teeth
you made them yourself
so stain me the color of
cherry trees
and unbliss my empty spine.
Dylan Halvorsen May 2016
I.) Bodies of

Open lakes are naked
Their secrets,
Rub like salt.
How did one get here
What seized the labour of hands.
Do we deserve to know.
Do we deserve to know the extent.
Do we deserve to know the extent of our own subjugation.
Knees meet dry earth.
It's dry where we forget to water it
Not that it needs water,
Salt finds form
In our negligence.
Arid insincerity spoke of more.

II.) To follow

We left.
We did not need to stay
A dry sterile whisper kept us there
With it's pleas for us to leave.
The trust of invitation,
Burnt holes in our wings.
Untrust of warning,
Had us leaving without our things
I don't know which is better.
A departure announced drew heed to soft cartilage.
Unsharpened curfue split bone without piercing the skin.
The expression of self.
Callous wanderers knocked at no doors;
to accept rejection.

III.) Reintegration of being

The want of murmurs in wanton misuse
Kept us foraging for lust,
For more,
For inability in casualty.
We waited for forest to arrive,
Bare earth begged of no candour,
Trees deny script.
Unclenched hands greyed over context
As purpose gave none where some was due.

IV.) What the stars offered

A quest unrelenting bends bark in fervour.
Do we know why we left,
Cold hands hock at swords needed to keep slight wrists in check.
Or where we are going,
Our aimless pacing finds direction in blind eyes and guided hearts.
All the dust settled, buried in puddles like art.
And the thunder was there
The thunder never knelt
But we listened
To listen was the choice.
A brief connection with the sky
Through it's reproach
It implored for something more,
Only upon deaf ears.
Was earth all there was to rain on?
We thought, as the stars spat on us.
Celestial offering in cleanse not spite.

V.) Love

Maybe that's why we left.
To trascend our own ideas of love.
Innocent foliage made the path harder to see,
But easier to tread.
Gentle arches hug mounds of green
Like finger tips kissed by yonic flesh.
To remember the conception in contact,
Was to recognize our own affirmation
And any word intended for the ears of the unknown.
Blood is replaced where word is love.

VI.) Relation to self

To stay or leave was not the choice
The distance from anything was illusory.
The real choice, was acceptance of self.
After the end of our disintegration,
The dry heave,
Leaving without hesitation;
We are not without ourselves.
Jack Dec 2013

Taken to the shadows, amass the frozen fall
Dreams of darkened hours sing
fresh in every mindset, placing avenues in the past

Brick and mortar tendencies
build a fortress around your heart,
as every nightfall wisdom
or sound against the rail, echoes in trust

Footprints in the snow…forward and back again
Never once a closed eye, an unclenched fist,
as I, the lone silhouette against your stained glass fears
stand firmly at the gate of brass and forged steel,
tarnished by weather but steady as devotion,
protecting you from the deepest of harm

Seeking nothing…not an ounce of peace,
for this role is now my destiny, my soul surrender
to a heart that beats within my own existence
in melodic undertones of poetic truths

And I gaze upon the winter moon, shining its light
upon your beauty, which I have come to long
in visions of my own shortcomings…alone
Q Oct 2013
You said, I want to go where the riots are,
Where my affliction has no name.
That's what you call it, your pacifism:
Your affliction, your disease.
Like a flaw that keeps you from fighting.
But I've seen you argue with
Unclenched fists and
Disappointed eyes and I know
It's not that you can't fight,
It's that you won
A long time ago.

A constitution
of new born rights,
as all hearken to your unquestioned might.
But I wonder, in your flight,
This pillage, like fashion plights,
What good is it to change, have war?
Over futile things, Politics against lore?
What good is it to change?
If man cannot from freedom strange
immerse perfection, and break the chain
to end unending woeful pain?
For if man cannot subdue evil will
then the vial of purity we seek to fill
inside us, will shortly spill, and then what?
We disagree and stride our struts
for new things, and new rules, "O my!"
"Revolution? Why?!"
Unclenched, revived? Evil gloom
is this to be our uttermost doom?
Francie Lynch May 2015
I slept in a red cot
On the SS Columbia.
In the middle of the cabin,
Brothers and sisters
Bunked vertically
On either side.
Seven in all.
We disembarked at Montreal,
Where my sister
Unclenched my white-knuckled hold
On the mahogany rails.
That moment was synapsed
And impermeable.

My third love
Taught me everything about love.
Miss DeGurse, Grade One.
She was taken by the dimples
And the brogue, but smart me,
I passed, we parted;
She to her farmer fiance,
Me to Grade Two
And Sister Hildegarde.
I learned valuable lessons,
But love was already learned
For a life-time outside family.

The soutane didn't fit anymore,
And the incense left me distracted.
The flickering shadows over the folds
Of Joseph's and Mary's statues
Have fewer outlines
Under the light of less candles.
Books replaced Church,
Then illuminated religion
In gold-leafed pages.
Women went well with books
And still enrich my every day.

Loss is all around.
No eulogies or memorials, please.
But remember me
When you splash in July,
Observe nature prepare for winter,
Blink flakes off your lashes,
Or bloom up and down your street;
Then gather,
Read something I wrote,
And Remember
I used to notice such things.
Harley Rae Feb 2013
His skin smelled of fire and his lips tasted of sweet honey and harsh tobacco;
his hot breath on my neck sent messages on butterfly wings from my spine to my small stomach,
sending all my blood to my head, making my pale face ignite into bright crimson.

The touch of his fingertips on my skin were kisses without lips,
he gave them to me each time we pulled away for air;
we inhaled sharply, tasting the sweat, tension, and anticipation in the air.
I couldn't stand to not have my lips on his,
and back we went to playing games with each other's tongues.

     Kissing the skin stretched over the bones in his chest,
along with the dying passion marks I had left several nights before,
I had no choice but to revive them; remind him.
Remind him for several days to come of our nights together,
of our passion, and our lust.

     He squirmed as I twirled and flicked my warm tongue across the soft, fragile flesh of his neck,
writing out love letters, and confessions of the heart,
along with profanities about his past lovers.

     I knew it was wrong; every touch, every kiss, every breath we exchanged,
my mind told me so with every single nerve he excited within me.
But something deeper inside of me protested,
told me I wanted this; that I needed it.

Perhaps it was animal instinct, I haven't any idea,

But in that moment, I wanted nothing more than for this to be the right thing.

I fought a battle between my conscience and my instincts,
my mind and my heart.

But I realized my mind was no longer in control of my body
as I unclenched the teeth of the zipper on my pants,
peeled away the layers of cotton, polyester, and denim that separated us,
and let myself begin to fall for a man I hardly knew.
woelita Jan 2018
I think my problem, in relation to last year’s writer’s block, is that I wish to write about me, and I wish to write about the world, and I’ve been waiting all this time for these things to extend beyond you. It’s as if I had been waiting for this poignant moment where someone—anyone— would announce that my life could begin again, as if continuity would seamlessly occur once the halt in time had pursued for long enough.

What a shock it would be to discover that the world waits.

(It doesn’t.)

In this time, I cut my hair and I let it grow. I looked in the mirror, hair falling halfway down my back like velvet drapes, keeping the sun out of my space and solitude, and I felt the power slipping away from my body. I knew that I needed to find a way to hold on to this power, one that was rooted in my own flesh and my own vision rather than yours.

(I did.)

I don’t get as lonely when I see crowds or busy streets or lights that remind me of you, drunk and obscene — laughing with your head thrown back, eyes glimmering like the Vegas strip. We slipped into an intimacy that, in retrospect, was simply me having a first-time love affair with myself. No hands were strange hands up until this point— no hands except my own. Trembling against my collar bone, realizing that what you gave to me was a home to live in. I look up. No ceilings, no roof, just space. The wars, they’re far away from here. I look up, find my power. It’s been here all along.

Resting in the unclenched fist, in the phone that remains unplugged on the bedside table. My power is in the hand that brushes the inside of my thigh, my power is in forgetting how to say I’m sorry when I’m less than quiet, when I forget how to bite my tongue. I keep looking up.

Blissful starry skies,

Atomic wasteland,

Wonder and boredom live side-by-side.

I am in you. You, in me. Open those velvet drapes you used to hide behind, child-like, curious but afraid of your own flesh, of your hot temperament.

The Sun goddess is rising in the East, raining on the wild seeds of May. I, body of water, offer myself to a new seed, grow like the deciduous plants of the Northern world, a whole forest dizzy from bliss and impermanence.

Thank you for visiting.
Forgiveness is the gentle scent of the spring flower..
the blaze of light illuminating that which was dark..
it is the quiet embrace after the storm..
it is the unclenched hand..
it is beauty beyond description..
love without condition..
it is the sweet breath of God's passing whisper to your free...forgive
BB Tyler Oct 2012
I once discovered that my brain is abyssal.
A mirror at most, a shadow or crystal.
As I unclenched, I found not a fist full.
Like dismissal, it's blissful.
Like some empty shape
much less than the wastes;
a smooth, silent stillness,
without mean, without make.

An empty fist is still a fist.
I am so
because there is
inside me.
Joe Bradley May 2014
In a stirring river,
Garrotted by mud and each rusted carcass
dumped over the slow years -
The dredgers cut down
And saw the metal of a woman,
A frothy corruption, naked, open.
They prized her from the mire and saw the city
through the eyes of the sewer.

The Lady from the Thames.
Her skin broke when she flopped on board.

Caved in by the tumbling sky
and the air, dry like leather,
Caught in his throat.
The Kilburn high-rise walls peeled like fingers
and the cogs clicked to fast to bite back.
He turned to the sepia city
like new life
And looked for her.

River of time elapsed
churning up memory
Each gallon lurches grit and rot.
trolley and corpse shudder
Forward, backward.
Teasing in smashed bottle

She was young once.
Looked just like her mum.
'What a muddy little angel you are,
What a muddy little angel you are.'
Til the glitz, the cracking lips
bet on kindness.
'I remember being a girl -
I waited for my mother every morning -
She was smiling and never sad.'

The sunken root scratches for life
Underneath vast, forgotten hangers.
The widow maker sheds her bark
and keep pace with the smog.
Sees what we all don't know.
Lives where we all can't see.
In a squealing Kings cross they met,
He led her to a room with broken windows
and one swinging bulb,
She wasn't scared.

Dank Amazon.
The roots intertwine with wires
sprawling grip for sulking glass tress.
'I'm a cruel joke don't you see?'
As her eyes slowly rolled
'I'm sorry'
As her fist unclenched
'It sorry'
As her knees went limp
'I'm sorry'.

Belted up, un-silent night
Screeching myre, gridlocked light,
He left her in the silt
And to the sound of screaming vans,
Runs rabbit down the hole
The hiss 187, 187 from the radio.
Alive in neon puddles that shatter
Under his pounding feet.

It was her who the dredgers found and
As looked to her form and
As they looked to her cuts
They thought that
She was the river.
Just another smashed bottle,
Mark Armstrong Jun 2018
Mother Nature is a nihilist sitting with friends
Around a poker table in the dew drop inn
Playing Nasty Canasta and the loser draws a limb
On a voodoo hangman, the cut of her kin

The high-wire committee say she’s way out of line
So they’ve sent in a crack-team of their most earnest faces
To blow 40 shades of blue, red and lime
From the very corridors our Mother paces

She croaks through the smoke “the first sons a novelty
The rest are just relics of muscles unclenched
Too smart for their own good and that doesn’t bother-me
But the reaper is hungry and hustling for rent”

Lackeys line the lawn, flunkies on fleek
To cover the crack of her chunky cheeks
“To stake lives may well seem immoral and bleak
But to play for cash prize seems horribly cheap
For a Lady of her esteem”

But the crowd spoke, she hung up the wardens trunchbull
Left the skeleton key within reach of the cells
“They’ve aired their opinions and I’ve had a ****-full
Let the hungry ******* impeach themselves
I’m sitting this one out”

“And I’ll  hide, while my dead snake wriggle persists,
On Elba with hairy pits, freckled wrists,
Openly practicing romanticists
And other hapless things that can’t exist
In these times”

Every second Sunday, the search resumes-led
By a dawn-chorus of confetti festooned-plebs
She can dance the devils limbo cos she’ll not be presumed-dead
While we’ve Holy Grail Package Holi-vows to renew-said
The green eyed usher on the door

The newsstand screams “Mother Nature was a fascist
Sher natural selection was the **** manifesto”
And they’re pedalling placebo to the shell-shocked masses
While the editor shoehorns a scotch into his amaretto

Yeah the world has been orphaned and the orphans smothered
But go easy on her sordid soul cos that’s  our mother, after all
Not to be read as any kind of statement but as a batshit bedtime story for overgrown kids
Stíofáinín Jan 27
Once there was a water dragon. He was brilliant and blue and he knew the depths of the sea like no other. Once upon a time a spider laid it's tiny eyes on him. This spider saw how wondrous and free the water dragon was and decided to silently follow him only so as to be close. The dragon, once observant noticed this but decided what's the harm. He let the spider look on as he continued to be himself. One day the spider realised it had something inside of itself that wanted to be free too and it bit the beautiful water dragon. The bite was venmous and the dragon could feel it corse through him and before he could even muster a thought against it, he wanted it. He wanted it and everyday the tiny spider would come to bite him again. The dragon knew this was wrong but he thought, that tiny spider all alone and everyday it comes back to bite me, that must be love. That tiny venom I feel in my heart must be love. And so he kept it.
The spider came from the ground but there was never a way back so it just stayed close to the dark. The cold places where there was little light and slowly those places became the dragons home too. He didn't swim in the light anymore. He didn't swin at all. His beautiful blue faded to grey and he forgot the sun. The spider continued to bite him every day until that last time when it borrowed itself right underneath his skin and then, the spider was swallowed whole.
The spider was called
The water dragon thought, at last it is dead now I can be free again. I can go back to the water now. And he did try, he tried to escape the cave but when he started to see the light again he had to turn away. His head was hung. The spider lived inside of him now and even if it was forever only in that tiny place, he knew he would not escape and inside he felt it and in the bottom of his soul he knew the spiders name.
He was trapped but at least now he could see the outside or watch as it went by. He could even feel the water again and float, floating was better than nothing at all, and he accepted his fate. He was content and he could be happy with being content and he wasn't even all that grey anymore. Mostly grey but still so magnificently beautiful. So he would watch the world but no one could ever see him because all they could know was a sad angry thing that is only called a shame because the dragon that once was is no more.

Once there was a beautiful water dragon...
Now no one remembers, no one searches because of what they might find...
It's better forgotten.
The dragon became a thing that was lost to even a single thought but if there ever was one it went like this.
Beware of that hidden thing, he was once something you may have spoke of. That's all.

But the same water dragon was still there somewhere and he himself knew this much and in everything that was enough.
That's what he wanted to believe.
It wasn't real though.
One day a curious girl found his dwelling, he was sure she'd be too afraid but admittedly nervous as she was she did not look away. Her wide eyes only grew. She touched his face and whispered "beautifil" he unclenched and began to free himself from a rigid position he'd been wrestling with for what seemed like lifetimes. The girl lost her footing quick realising too late that she stood on the dragons tail. She fell back off the cliff from the cave right into the sea.
The dragon thought, if I do this now if I save her then I can remember myself. I will never be grey again but I'll remember that it was not me. If I go out into that sea now I might not ever be able to find a way back here and even though I know this is not home.
this is my only home.
But the girl was drowning.

The dragon saved the girl and he brought her back to his home and there she woke and said "I love you dragon, you have saved me but you are most beautiful in the light. You do know that don't you?" And she gazed at him in wonder but he just hung his head because he could not forget what he believed the girl should never know.
He remembered that spider who was long dead now but part of it would forever remain inside of him.
The girl slid down and caught his head in her hands, smiled and pushed him back into place.

"I found you dragon, I FOUND YOU!!! That means you are mine and I say you cannot live here like this anymore. I will take you with me and we will find someplace beautiful for you to swim again so you can be what you are, so you can feel the sun. I want that for you, dragon. You know why"

"don't say no ok! let's just go far away from this cave now because I love you and I won't ever leave you here but I am a girl, dragon. And I need to see the sun and I want that and that is a freedom that you could never know confined to this cave"
The dragon came so close he was almost inside of the girls wide eyes. His huge, deep, warm breaths on her face made her skin come alive like she was in command of countless living creatures, breathing in her veins. Powerful. That is what he made her.
The dragon said, I saved you didn't I! You know why but please don't ask these silly things. I will not leave here now because it is my home somehow but you can come here anytime you like and see me. Looking at you makes me happy and you know, you know I'll love you but just don't try to move me now because because I am so much bigger than you tiny girl and know this, I have already tried. Nope! I am not going anywhere so don't even ask.
The girl smushed her face into some kind of unnatural expression and huffed.
"I'll show you dragon"
She kicked his tail and ran right up to his ear and whispered.
"I am not afraid of you. I saw that spider once and I know you feel it too and dead as it may be that spider will always borrow down deeper and deeper unless you just let it be free. The dead have left marks all over you. something a girl could never imagine, dragon. I see that and I do not have to know but you should know this, I am not afraid!
And I'll be back tomorrow, and tomorrow and all of eternity because I will never leave you alone here dragon.
And tomorrow, I will make you smile.

Tomorrow the girl came back. She scaled the slippery wall with a world of belongings on her back and when she reached the top where the dragon called home she flung what could have been all of her tiny life's worth out on to the hard rock. She yelled
"I am here, dragon"
And the dragon appeared. He slowly wrapped her in his cold skin and he said nothing. The girls face looked disappointed so he tightened his grip but she sighed and wriggled free and looked at him in the eye.
The girl laughed.
The dragon was in awe of how anyone could escape his grip and he did indeed seem defeated almost but the girl just smiled at him and said "silly dragon, you know that I am too small, you could never hold me"

"But dragon, this is the predicament now you see, I have told you that I am a girl who needs so many things and the sun and the sun but you are my only sun and that is the only warmth that I want to know now and I don't know how to tell you I was wrong. I only need you and I've taken all these things here with me so to make you admit what you yourself already know. You have said it and not said it in too many ways so now you just need to let it be. You dragon, you love me. You have saved me and now I will save you too"
The dragon still said nothing so the girl continued.
She stood the ground, taller than she was and proclaimed.
Not to sway you but to show you how to look and see what is real. This is all I have dragon, so it will work because you will not tell yourself that it cannot.
Just see"

I took these three strings, sangen. And sometimes I can melt colours so you may not feel grey anymore and I will write and sing for you a million songs if you promise to always open your eyes for me.
All of my words which have now fallen right here in front of you. You really should open your eyes and see, it's like an endless haiku.
And third,
What else do I have of value save for myself and who knows how much value is in that. But third, it is spilled out clear. Honesty dragon. All of my honesty and I am not a perfect girl, not at all but I will accept whatever you show me because I only want to see you and I am not afraid"

she asked the dragon and she showed him her heart and all the times her tiny frame had cracked trying to get it out.
"I was not always this either but it is enough dragon, even if we are the only ones who ever know. You are still alive in here.
We are.

The dragon spoke and he said, ok girl I am listening. I am looking so show me. Then the girl whispered
"I know the spider all too well"

"it camouflages itself as something innocent but it was never that. I have been bitten by a spider too and I know what it never wants you to see"

"it can never rest even when you know its dead and the further down it digs the more eggs it lays inside of you, dragon and the only way it stops is if you set it free and I know that feels impossible but all you need to do is show me. Then it is gone and you will be free. I can see its marks on you, it's all over you poor dragon, but it is dead now so please let it go"

"I am only because I had looked at that spider everyday until I wasn't afraid, so I picked it out from inside of myself and threw it away. I cannot do this for you, dragon but I can stay here and make you smile while you find a way to let it go. But, just show me and I promise you it will go and don't worry I know I am small but I am not weak and I am not afraid of you and I will still stay"
The dragon spoke again but only to say,
stay here just don't say anymore.
Sleep now.
But the girl refused to tire and finally the dragon grew strong enough to show her.
Look now, you see it can never come away and I will never let it go now because I am afraid.

The girl saw the spider and it was in the dragons beating heart. She kissed his heart and told the dragon.
"it's ok, dragon. Thank you for showing me this"

For several days and nights they slept until a day the girl awoke. She was alone in the dragons empty cell and she walked to the opening where a light broke through and stumbled over a dried out tiny corpse of something that was once called
And she looked far out through the cracks onto the waves and there he was like she had never seen him before and yet somehow it was entirely fitting to her image of what she knew the dragon could be. He was blue again and so fast and when he moved she could feel it through the bones. 

The dragon came back to the girl but still he said nothing. His breath was so close to her again that all the tiny creatures she never let die ran back through her veins and she knew. She was alive.
The girl climbed on the dragons back and he said said
Now, we can go home.
May be just a silly thing but I'm still wanting to put this here
SG Holter Jul 2014
After the smoke clears
I survey the damage.

Or rather the lack

My eyes have grown.
My mouth narrowed.

I'm all ears; all hands

I've learned to appreciate
A hug from my father,

Felt just how well
My mother knows my pain

Without a single drop of hint.
Silence. Ah, the silence.

To do what-, when-, however I want.
The freedom of a King Size alone.

My God, the things I gained
In the fire.
the children with such earthen hands opened the book burning in Sanskrit: twilight of  Summer.
now to their own accord, they must persist in daylight, with the overgrowth arrives
           new verve to rising tendrils.
one by one, leaping out of the unclenched hands of faith, pelts of the world give
     them a renewed bounty of laughter; even the days ring true, a consortium of bells
in the nearby cathedral of Barasoain or wherever perhaps, in the streets where
   a different kind of ashen is imparted: I speak of the languor in sleep.
a gossamer canopy underneath the guava, whose leafing fingers signal them like motherless
   beacons to the sprite of the lissome afternoon – such bodies hemmed in inertia, stay
  there in search for light. blacker the wounds of trees yet insignia the name of memories,
      a river of stallions is the blood of fetal natures and I sing freely with them:
         we are the children of the loam!
for my lost youth, and all the other children I see, ****** in the afternoon.
There is no Love.
That is divine.
Without a thorn.
We cannot love.
With the love
of the King of Love.
Without the thorn.
Of death.
Death to Self.
Through forgiveness.
Through pain.
Through loss.
Through letting go.
Of one's own gain.
For the sake of the other.
For the sake of their welfare.
Even to the wounding.
Of one's own soul.

There is no Love.
That is divine.
Without a thorn.
Without setting the other free.
To be who the Man of Thorns
created them to be.

There is no Love.
That is divine.
Without a thorn.

The heart breaks in two.
The hands release.
Unclenched fists.
The beloved one.
Into the hands of God.
Knowing this...
They may never come back.
For they were never ours.
To begin with.

There is no Love.
That is divine.
Without a thorn.

The One who wore
the Crown of Thorns.
Teaches this.
To His own.

There is no Love.
A Thorn.

— The End —