Tuesday, September 18, 2012

The Atrophied Sinew (Wrestling Known Demons)

The weight of your sins
Depress deep upon
The spine—forever
Herniating the
Ever to remain

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
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.


  1. Can't escape the past everything we do whether tiny or vast will have some sort of kickback, and the flack surely causes the seams to crack. Our hardest critic is usually ourselves as well, as over and over again we ring that bell. The ending was truly great, as such is our fate.

  2. Wow, this is imho one of your best, potent and emotionally stirring, touching on many things we feel but find hard to touch in the light of day. Magnificent.

  3. guilt is a heavy burden and your poem made me think of the monks in the middle age that tortured themselves cause they felt the weight hard upon them

  4. dude...some wicked quick rhyme going on in this...right from the get go...the intro is pretty tight...the torture we inflict on ourselves...some def truth in that as well...


  5. thats a wicked opening stanza fred . . . sets the scene skillfully . . . i feel drawn into the deep with this piece . . . a willing dunkee!
    on the stool
    dipping . . .

    dark is the heart
    Po lets the light in huh?

    clinical reading fred . . .
    the clammy whisper snags
    the imagination
    further still!

  6. The last stanza is the one that really strikes me...how the collateral from depression is never quite removed, always remains in some form awaiting its chance to torture a person another day in perhaps a new form. Not a very optimistic outlook, but I believe this to be true! A strong write, Fred. You stretch me.

  7. there is a point
    where even
    break down and
    cry for the charcoal
    shaded soul,

    You write so well of depression and guilt - we have a hard time of shades of grey. k.

  8. This sounds like the nasty cycle of depression -- coming from beating up oneself over a pass deed. Over and over, the torture seems never enough, coloring everything dark, making it hard to be happy even when something good happens. You really drew the monster here.

  9. Dark, rich in description, deeply contemplative. And your end stanza is an amazing gripping finale.

  10. Really amazing twists and turns of words, phrases. That beginning paragraph was perfect, and loved the phrase "charcoal shaded soul" Wonderful write!

  11. I love the way this ebbs and flows--its like listening to someone think out loud, or a teaching from a shaman, perhaps, invoking, dissecting, finally accepting the lot of humans, to always hurt themselves most. Great reading, also.

  12. real strong, gritty imagery in this one, Fred... love our 'writhing signature'... oh yeah