Drip Drip
My muse is a bag of saline.
An IV that infuses.
The needle pierces.
Words drip through my veins.
People ask, “Does it hurt?”
I reply, “Only sometimes.”
When the muse hits a nerve, I bleed with the rawness of my wounds.
Naked in my brokenness, I recoil as the slough of my past trails across paper.
The needle digs deeper without relent.
Drip, drip.
My history I cannot erase, but I can display it as
art until I decide to rip the needle from my arm.
~~
In My Grief
A cloister chapel.
Father’s funeral.
Mother, I and a handful of
mourners.
Distant relatives.
No pomp or ceremony.
My father.
My anchor.
Torn apart by cancer.
I am desolate in my sorrow.
I must care for Mother.
But who will care for me?
The service begins.
You are nowhere to be seen.
In the hush, you enter, drunk, bold as brass.
And I realise, not for the first time, no solace can you offer.
Alone, I must drown in my grief.
~~
Grief is an Ocean
Grief is a vast ocean beyond all tears.
Grief is a remote island where you sit alone.
No one knows what to say.
No one visits your shores.
Many suns set while seasons come and go.
Yet the ocean of grief never ebbs or slows
as you cling to the life raft of long ago with both hands.
Memories you hold fade with the sands of time.
Everything comes full circle, but
grief never ends, no matter how many tears we weep.
Within grief, sorrow drowns us in its undertow,
and we cannot release what we wish would return.
~~
When Doves Fly
Without action, love is but a blurb.
An empty speech bubble devoid of substance.
Love needs to feel safe.
How can doves build nests on barbed wire fences?
The beating heart must turn inwards lest it wither alongside the dead flowers of yesterday.
A grand gesture tied with a ribbon of conditions.
When words are empty, love sees no care.
To the comfort of its chambers, it must return. In the absence of affection, love has no reason to stay.
And as doves fly to sunnier climbs, blackened lilies drown in a vase of tears.
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