We
suffered her together.
When
you fled,
I suffered her alone.
I suffered her alone.
You
were always older,
Always bigger,
Stronger,
Enduring more,
Struggling against her, me or anyone,
Carving your identity into the scars of our flesh.
Always bigger,
Stronger,
Enduring more,
Struggling against her, me or anyone,
Carving your identity into the scars of our flesh.
Was
I nine the last time?
Alone
at the lake
In
an unguarded moment
You held me.
Your weight against my neck,
I held my breath,
Waiting for you to surface.
You held me.
Your weight against my neck,
I held my breath,
Waiting for you to surface.
Water
pressing,
Lungs burning,
Mind racing,
Screaming,
Kicking,
Fighting,
Losing,
I give in,
Lie still,
Exhale.
Lungs burning,
Mind racing,
Screaming,
Kicking,
Fighting,
Losing,
I give in,
Lie still,
Exhale.
What
did my rising breath release in you,
That let me breathe again?
That let me breathe again?
Now
you talk to me like a stranger,
Claiming
the remnants,
Your mother, your father,
As though you endured
My life without you,
Or wished for one more moment
You had never let me go.
Your mother, your father,
As though you endured
My life without you,
Or wished for one more moment
You had never let me go.
When
memories of you surface,
I still hold my breath,
Exhaling only as
You hold me down again.
I still hold my breath,
Exhaling only as
You hold me down again.
© 2014 Edward P. Morgan III
Picture Notes:
ReplyDeleteThis picture was taken out by the boat ramp on Lake Walsingham on the evening of the Winter Solstice in 2016. There wasn’t much color in the sky that night. The lake was calm and the reflection of the sky was nearly perfect. This picture is actually 3 pictures merged together in Photoshop. I upped the vibrance to bring out what color there was in the sky. I like the moodiness of this shot and it seems to fit the poem. When I showed it to Edward, he liked it right away.
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ReplyDeleteNotes & Asides:
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I originally wrote this one back in 2001, copyrighted in 2014 then brushed up and changed a bit before I posted today. I guess poems are never truly finished.
The story behind this one is emblazoned in my mind. One of the truths in my life I mull over again and again, hoping to come to a new understanding.