The boil

by on August 24, 2012 :: 0 comments

In parts, in a bleached mirror,
I hide behind the rusty patches
and realize
that life ain’t so beautiful
when relations rend.

I see my eyes disillusioned, my nose bashed,
my heart pierced, my mouth anemic.
Lines of painful sadness slither in my face –
I sniff
and remember
the wild blue of the blue mimosa
that bloomed in the front yard of my father’s house
years ago when I was a kid; now
the tree has long been gone. All I can see in its place
is a barren front. Splinters,
just a few splinters – if I may find of it.

Oh hell, how the fire of that cold winter
charred my interior!

True! I’ve got a boil on the butt.

editors note:

Think always of the bloom, give the boil the end of your attention. – mh

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