PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Lava and heartbreaking tenderness scorch my body from my knees to my breast protected and crushed in your hand.  Countless, blinding car wrecks of ecstasy fuse me to you and your precious soul.  I’m anguished by any suggestion our skin must ever live alone again. Your smell, my aphrodisiac, leaves me helplessly humming in your arms and out.

Mindless wind at 100 miles an hour, rain and hail breaking every window.  The thunder of a train roars destruction across all imagined.  Bombs explode.  The world is gone.  All remaining shattered, upended, silent dark-gray and alone.

My aching pain; the only evidence I have of life, searing my brain and burning my veins in what used to be a soothing rhythm, now, like scars, relentless reminders of what used to be.  Nothing works.  I can’t even see correctly.  The war is over.  I lost.

I try, like a refugee, to like my new world.  I try really hard.  But, I hate tents and bottled water, and the food is tasteless, mushy and there is never enough.  I hate the other people in the other tents.  They act like victims. 

I try making things I can sell overseas to get the hell out of this bleak hole, but no one buys them.   I start making things for myself to look like I’m not desperate.  I work hard to weave elaborate fabrics and create beautiful clothes.  I walk around the tents like I’m somebody.

One day there is a man with a camera.  My troubles are over.  I’ll be on the cover of National Geographic and get out of this nightmare. 

He’s only interested in those who look like they need to be saved. 

I leave.  I walk the dry land slowly.  I’m surprised when travelers help me.  They show me where the water is and how to make a meal out of scorpions.  I keep walking.  The only thing I look forward to is when the stars come out at night.  The sky is as overwhelmed by them as I am.   The universe is infinitely more interesting than my usual thoughts.

My feet hurt and I’m old now, but my veins aren’t on fire and I can see again.

I find a city with people I don’t really hate, but spring never arrives. 

It’s hot and dusty every day.