It’s
the scar tissue type
of hope,
the kind that’s
drawn too far past—
the frayed
lines
of
sympathetic appeal—
It’s
the moistened blanket
twice
applied to feverish brows—
molested
by dampening tears
escaping
their shadow’s cell
It’s
the weathered apparel
hesitantly
breathing
yet
often lacking the design
of
symmetry—
dividing the pangs of ulcers deep;
below the crested veil, yet well above
the coded resolve—
It’s
these battles
waged
in a cuneiform of turmoil
amongst
the bridging gaps of confused allegiance—
where
cultural dignity is pitted so squarely
against
the necessities of economy
It’s
the imposter behind the curtain
in
the back room with the purposefully darkened
panes
of glass
“Not the one where…”
“Yes,
that’s the one…
where good mothers and fathers alike,
tell tales of exaggerated consequence
before
applying the forehead’s midnight kiss goodnight”
It’s
these stories
that can make one wonder what exactly was seen
to prompt such tales, that are remembered all too
easily
was
it an unnatural gleam—
or a bothersome tic—that
marred
the desired fabric of their creations frequency
It’s
the words of a storyteller, relaying:
warnings—
as subtle overtures of persuasion,
unintended
to incite implication,
yet
performed, in such a way,
where a tad too little premonition,
is
weighed upon, as to how
potential
seeds
already
have been,
inadvertently
delivered somehow—
never considering the fragility of
a child’s
mind, where fractured
and faulty filters have yet been taught
It’s
these moments
of self-revelation
that
act as epiphanies—
as warnings
of
what could be,
if we,
choose not to act
accordingly
It’s
these memories
that we remember all too well,
as
we sit
patiently behind
our
darkened
panes of glass
For Open Link Night over at D'Verse. Be sure to head on over there, the Bar's open and the poetry is flowing fierce. Sit back, grab a glass and enjoy. If you've a poem of your own you'd like to share, simply step up to the mike and join in on the weekly fun.
