PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Dead, battered and gutted like the rotting corps of a Mexican hog, reduced of original consciousness, and discarded into an endless pit of the damned black, his legs attempted pitifully to show appropriate posture, making way through her front lawn as light resumed to fade, her presence the only hope for living he could imagine.
She consecrated his head between her breast
that day, and revived oxygen to his lacerated lungs
as his eyes closed to
the first arrival of peace, a séance secreted within the heart,
one he had never yet exhausted. All he could do
was at very least, try to
rebound from a year long battle whence hurt concerned no end
and joy could find no origin. Upon that night, she allowed him the chance.
March 12th,
The sun reached none but few hours past its setting,
entering the part of the day which even the suns eloquence seemed lost in its own displacement, contrasting to how
his feet posed barely parallel to one another as he approached the entrance to her home, his body
to weak to stand worth any sufficiency, stumbling onto her stoop
effortlessly clinging to the railing but failing to hold balance as the rain aided in the lubrication of its cold, suddenly wet iron.
Slowly the door creeks open. A wild gasp is heard filling the atmosphere as a short silhouette poses ahead of him. He cannot see her, the tears flooding his face camouflaged by the splenetic condensation make his perception distorted. The stomach is struck ill as he clears the fudge from his eyes and gains pure vantage of her. With every attempt of his being he meant to tell her “I am dying Joe I need to hold you, please may I lie down with you, for I am a scared child campaigning for companionship whose inadequacy for happiness has led me to you, the candle shining at the end of the brunette hallway, the muse of a retired aged poet.” but the boy could not speak. His tone was pitiful, mumbling dull words of insoluble discernment as the rain kept spitting and numbing his dialogue.
Thirty seconds had passed since he first stepped to her doorstep and no clear words were ever said. It came to the boy prior the spectacle that its acts came with a deliverance of emotion, which needed no deployment by vocabulary of the tongue. With his enduring notion she grabbed his hand with the indebted clinch of her silk velvet flesh and finally, took him
in.
Joolz knew of his circumstance, the depression and the demoralizing agony of not being able to have what he’d wanted the most, what he felt he needed to survive. In some ways she was not surprised of his arrival. She knew he was
longing for comfort, that he
starved for someone to absorb the liquid from his eyes
and hold his quivering body while life dared to
freeze his bone marrow and
chill the exoskeleton making the entirety of his surface area physically tremble in the present feel of bare, false illumination.
In her summaries,
The person was a soldier returned from war scarred, filthy, broken and banned
from reality and invited to death, even hence the
battles been fought. A short minute flies, he was finally able to hold footing in front of her,
gaining path in her home, salvaging whatever warmth one could muster.
As she shut the door behind us
he would not allow her hand to flee grasp,
lightly stretching her fingers to his face
plying the warmth of her hand to his cold cheek
vanishing any perdition that lingered outside
the margins of the door he’d wish he never departed.
For those confines acquainted a place which walls were never perforated by distress.
By her company, inside her eyes, he had found home.
To be continued...