The Atrophied Sinew (Wrestling Known Demons)

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The weight of your sins

Depress deep upon

The spine—forever

Herniating the

Conversations

Ever to remain

Unaligned

The balance of forgiveness

entrenches within—the winding

scars that become the emphatic

provocation—of disturbances wrestling

strong inside—entombed, ensnarled amongst

the covetous coil incubating persistently—still

burdening the landscape with each forlorn promise

ever told—and while the delusion of honor still remains—

the reality permeates this seducing dream—never permitting

acknowledgements their chance to speak—blindly working towards

some unattainable dream, while the Iscariot inside arrests and writhes

Shards of a diluted elegy, broker

silently prides ascent,

from whence, out

of the bubbling hate—

an ill-crossed path, once diluted

by perfumeries and colored specks, now

fostering forward the injective course,

where disillusionment haunts the presence

of this intrinsic bliss-filled knot—and in so,

blindsided it becomes, unwittingly tainting the

vitriol surrounding the stained-glass chambers

of the post-apocalyptic promulgation of a soul—

dispossessed, frayed and suddenly overwhelmed by the

sensations of a once prominent, yet now redacted and hollow

version of what we used to caress so close….

Dark prognostications send antagonistic reminders,

of how the pretty ignorance will shrivel, as does the petal,

withering atop the potting soil, fragrant to a degree, yet

decaying consistently

Atone we must

but even then,

there is a point

where even

confessionals

themselves

break down and

cry for the charcoal

shaded soul, destined,

only to oblige the gravitational

flagrancies of directionality, forever

encouraged to jaunt forward, only to never

truly be awakened from the sleep perdition keeps,

inching unnoticeably toward the ensnaring captivity

that binds one to the annexes of paralysis, that torturous road

that corrals the far beyond repaired, to the pitiless posture found

in the beds of stone—the writhing signature distinct to southern sleep

Depression gnaws at the atrophied sinew—

for what has occurred, may be covered thick and dense

yet never is the collateral fully removed—always remaining, tainting every pleasant memory, enhancing those nightmares to which are tightly clutched…for the remnants, the residuals of a once sinful self, ever has a way of reinventing the torture we inflict upon ourselves

Once again, Tuesday is upon us, and Poets everywhere know exactly what that means…time to head on over to the Pub…OLN opens at 3pm. The D'Verse doors stay open all night, for your poetic fare.  Please tip the staff with a poem of your own.