A poetry journal of everyday clippings |
She first goes to bed with lights on, a modest hope chirping under her eyelids, preferring to ignore the darkness, trying not to feel, trying to slip past herself, trying to toss away dreams, but a weak tear reappears over the misery of a rustle of recall, a rumor she didn’t heed, like the whisper of green caterpillar legs sliding on a leaf, that forecast rose petals to be eaten away. How vaguely she created an unrecognizable face, a lover’s image, her soft hands reaching to loss, dragging excuses, tangling in calluses and shams! No more hush-hush... Her shriek, though internal, shrill and wild, pierces through the lampshade, like the Munch drawing “The Scream”; an outcry among black ink lines tracing countless sobs, struggling for voice inside the terror of the dark through a throat engorged with agony, attempting to feel a horizon and go beyond surrendering to fury. The chain of the lamp swells inside her hand as she pulls, daring the ominous darkness. To escape from a nightmare will not be easy, unless she burns the bed. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Truth is beautiful, without doubt; but so are lies."- Ralph Waldo Emerson Joy |