Raw Rhythm of Rue

If cold concerns

mingled on your chest

If sore struggles

begged to be confessed,

you still needn’t have left.

For now I wearily stand

with a dusty plate

waiting to be served

perhaps a rinsed version

of a soul that never went.

So I stitch a dutiful smile

with a sweet lining of lies.

I sew the hem with pretty pretense

for a world quick to tire

of waters overfeeding the eyes.

Loss and I in arms entangled

through arid paths and dark waters.

At times we swim, at times we drown

wailing aloud, sitting without sounds,

we crack and mend, we mend and crack.

I lay my head on rigid pillows,

plumped with drifting shadows

of unsung songs I wish I’d heard.

The unsaid and undone write a tune

with a raw rhythm of woeful rue.

Published by


Autodidact & Bibliophile

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