Stone

Image courtesy of fossilera.com

What is it that you wish to know?

How someone could live with
The edges of a life chipped away,
Breath not taken, suffocated,
Heart stilled, 	
Walking dead	
Through the days of life,
Just so onlookers believe 
The pretense they wish to see?

While I, struggling for air,
For the beating rhythms of life,
Having lived too long inside a shrinking skin,
Become petrified wood, stone,
Armored in minerals.

Only so close.
Only so close.
For I have lived years and years
Of rings and more rings,
All mineralized,
Surrounding the core
Of me.  Nothing
Could truly touch,
Know the center.
Nothing ever did
Perhaps, ever will.

It is easy to live 
As stone.

The Vines of a Tiny Truth

“Roots” 1943 by Frida Kahlo

The Sunday Muse Challenge from The Sunday Muse

With my thoughts dried out,

cracking like the earth,

the seeds of some miniscule truths

take root within my chest

sprouting monstrous vines to wind down,

clawing into this cracking earth

until escape cannot be had–

the only tiny truth contained within the seeds,

the simple one of sacrifice

in the day to day.

Buried

Image courtesy of The Guardian

https://amanpan.com/2021/07/08/eugis-weekly-prompt-network-july-8-2021/

 

Can’t really say how it happened.

But it did.  All those years ago.

Some may say it’s a pity or a sin.

All I say is I survived.

 

It was the lava, really.

That’s at fault.  Yeah, maybe

me, since I did let it in.

Into my network of arteries and veins,

letting it flow until it coated

everything inside.

It cooled.

I turned to stone.

I walked in skin and could yet bleed.

But, sure enough, inside—

I was stone.

I felt nothing.

And that felt good—

To be cold as stone.

No longer part of the network of humanity

Though I walked in it—

How perfect it felt

to feel inhuman,

to feel nothing at all–

At least, for a little while.

 

 

Scars of Hope

Image is my own

I gather hardened scars of loss and damage
Braided into keloid beauty
That are not blossoms of bitterness,
But fragrant beauties
That make me who I am.
Even the bars of your barren garden
Called love could not steal away
The essence of my hope.
Instead, the black, barrenness
within sugar syrup words
Of one never able to love
Contain no acid
To eat away
My skin of hope.