Blooded early,
alone,
but it’s a cinch:
just peeling skin
on spattered rock
to a pooling cry
gleaning god & grief
with sharpened ease
fated late to survive
(then thrive)
with nowhere to hide…
a tear-filled alkahest
taking liminal shade
‘neath a cool palisade
always teaching death
with a bug-eyed splat
or chipping a cough
from the chopping laugh
(crickets & frogs &
lichen on logs,
a dog in the fog
and a lamb on the street
all’s we’ve to offer
is slabs of meat)
fodder for the ground
where the distant waste
will mark our race,
our days boiled alive
to summertide taste
our nights pick their teeth
with a fated trace-
a whetstone sneer
for tendering years
and dripping the coat
that feeds our hopes…
bladed empty,
alive,
and it’s a cinch:
just molted skin
from peeling time
on the wailing sky
cleaning years of grief
with tears of joy.
It sounds like that life is taking enjoyment from the pain until you shed of the outer layer and reveling the truest form of you which is joy.
That is what I am getting from this piece. I could be wrong.
Great comment. Thank you!
Beautifully penned, Ben. Amazing flow, this ain’t your first rodeo my friend. Spectacular write. Appreciate you.
Damian