I was a skeptic,
a Thomas with doubt
fingers rubbing the scars of my own disbelief,
thinking breath alone could not unravel my pain.
How foolish I,
with my sharp, cynical mind,
believing only the white pills
would loosen the darkness inside me.
I still swallow them,
those small chemical moons,
but breath is the true sovereign,
slow high tide that lifts the ribs,
and sometimes, yes,
lets a song escape.
There is a secret fire in breathing,
a blue flame no pharmacy sells,
a river that carries the body home
to itself.








Beautifully dark.
I hear you.
Regards
James
Powerfully penned, Peter. Incredible write my friend. Appreciate you.
Damian
Thanks James and Damian for the nice comments.
Deep, dark and authentic. Great work here Peter.