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On the Poetic Couch Again
On the Poetic Couch Again
I trace a tattoo on my wall of hide
And wince when tissue scarred is rendered up
to touch. The pain that comes from this, aside,
The sorrow more than overflows my cup.
Wood smoke nostalgias waft and slowly wane
As gouts of angst then undertow my wade
Damned if I wrest the locks that keep me sane
Left then to float within my marinade
Where then the leech of time can concentrate
upon the fluid bile within my sea
of self-design boiled hot with flames of hate
with no escape … there’s none that I can see
Small wonder when the mists raise up and spring
I quickly turn the key from what they bring.
© Bart Breen 1/18/2002
