Honest with the wholves

January 27, 2012

Old enough to know I’m not the only poet who is haunted. Outrunning them for a long time, but the wholves caught up, found me out, tore me open. No more sleeps, wicked dreams, a wealth of broken glass, ghostbites, hoofscars, torn up lists, shaky palmed plans. An era of claws for glossas, curved teeth standing in for stanzas, ripped up rip tide rogue sentences shorn to useless unbridled bits.

How much are we all willing to reveal about our darkest parts and hours? Not much, I wager.

Everyone breaks, eventually. I am missing several puzzle pieces, but I circle the dark, the dark loop and hesitation.

And now welcome this eviction: to bliss, fresh air, infinite possibility:

A soundtrack for turmoil n insomnia . . .

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