impaling my brittle heart on its poisoned tip,
draining it brutally to the last vital dreg
of anemic blood- my wavering lifeline.
The fire from her caustic tongue has burnt
the solitary kernel of my cloistered being,
give me a brush so I can sweep the ashes,
give me a rag so I can wipe the slate clean.
(One of my favorite Native American proverbs says: It is better to have less thunder in the mouth and more lightning in the hand)
10 comments:
You've got it down! Love this one.
just when we have both, there'll be rain...
poignant piece!
when an artist/poet gets wounded... the blood is never lost... it'll nourish the tree of her/his creation whose fruit may be eaten by all... including the one inflicting the injury...
art is healing!
purifying
like rain...
Her blood afflicted flows slowly congealing
Into the roots of the mighty tree,
That grows through love eternally nourishing
The crazed ones- yearning to be free.
hey this is a magic tree!
branching out so fast... so gracefully...
:)
love it!
Lovely indeed! :)
Great proverb...good poem
Dedicated to Her
It is a wonderfull poem.
I love it.
I write poems. Good poems I thing,
I´am sure, I believe.
But I´am portuguese, I write in my language. I found you in my blogs.
Good, very interesting your,
"Dedicated to Her...
I´ll waite for you, in my portuguese poems.
Maria Luísa
Akeith: Thank you. I really appreciate the fact that you always read my poems :)
Maria: Thank you for your lovely comments. Yes, I'll drop by your blog. Keep up with the poetry...
Goodness me, this is brilliant.
"give me a brush so I can sweep the ashes,
give me a rag so I can wipe the slate clean." <3
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