Recurrence

[M. C. Sears]

The night hangs

over the landscape

like a void

 

Its voice

a rasp so small

it goes unheard

 

Threads of light

bleed downward

spilling into the earth

 

Here I stand

with my dry mouth

expected to speak

 

My voice a rasp

with words

made of thistles

 

The sound low, mournful

as the barbs rake across

the tongue

 

The taste of blood

now strong and coppery

chocking, coughing

 

I’m expected to sing

the fear rising, looking heavenward

praying for rain

 

Pushing down the fear

acting like all is well

turning the key on this memory

wax painting on wooden board M.C.S. ~ image inspired by Zanelle’s, Abandoned Black Car photo essay

[Zanelle]

Ooo   All is not well.  That rasp in your voice and fear in your soul are perfectly normal and devastating.  How do any of us survive even one more moment?

[Rosigami]

"Words made of thistles"...a beautiful line and what a powerful image.