Almost unable to rise from the darkness,
from the black places
carefully woven so deftly,
a killing cacoon
of fairy tales, the Grim kind,
woven of smoke and imagination and hate
tales of purpose and murder
of the slowest kind.
The best of me stifled, my heart too willing to believe
instead of my own, too willing
to let another paint my portrait
with photographic details.
Almost dead, yet long after the dead of winter,
when the corpse was fresh and out of sight,
when the voodoo pins ceased, sure
there was no life worth torturing,
one seed remains.
And one is enough.
And life, left to itself, flourishes,
A tiny stalk today,
a tree tomorrow,
stronger for its almost death,
knowing now the truth:
there is no death.
Only life after life.
About this poem
Too many influences to list for this one. Its the stone soup of poetry. But it is a big part of my story.
Survival seems to still be on my mind (See yesterday’s poems).