I offered the tender of my heart
to suborn the hag of life’s kisses.
And I have stood in winter
against a morn dreadful and vicious.
Warped as a cinder,
burned alive,
unshriven and unshorn,
I have stood and given
until the blade is worn.
Do the bones of my smiles
not show the bruises?
Wear I not the blisters
of weary miles?
Is there a scream
I have not loosed?
Is there a blood
I have not shed?
Why do you think
I dream in red?
But at the gate between hawk
and dove,
on all the roads that scars chalk,
still I seek a compass that points to love.
Now that the gates of hell have become clearly visible and the hounds running not only heard but their bite felt across every man above the dirt I do not know for certain beyond my own mind if there is love left to point to.
ReplyDeleteCharles in your own imagery you are full of might at conveying what others can not, will not, do not, give voice to. Stay safe.
Wonderfully written and such a delight to read. Vivid and haunting.
ReplyDeleteMark, Thanks, man. sometimes the compass spins wildly. That's for sure
ReplyDeleteBlogoratti, I'm very glad you enjoyed.
Wow, that is something. a new direction?
ReplyDeleteCloudia, something that came to me recently.
ReplyDeleteThis is so wonderfully written! Thanks for sharing.
ReplyDeletewww.ficklemillennial.com
Gina, thank you.
ReplyDeleteVery thought-provoking.
ReplyDeletePatti, thankee
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ReplyDeleteYou always remind me, and this is a compliment, of a man from another time. Your language, prose belonging to an age long ago still appreciated by those in the know.
ReplyDeleteDavid, Thanks, man. Much appreciated.
ReplyDeleteOh yeah ~ I dig it, Charles! Lovely flow (like blood and lava) . . .
ReplyDeleteErik, thanks, man
ReplyDeleteSorry so late with this, Charles, but I loved this!
ReplyDeleteGot chills with the line "Do the bones of my smile not show the bruises?"
And I agree with David above.
This is so wonderfully written! Thanks for sharing.
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