Waiting.

The poem I was writing

died

in a cancer-ridden, festering, open

maggot-eaten sore.

 

The words I were searching

hid

in the bottom of the black-water well

I was too frightened to explore.

 

That song that defines me

weeps

in the tender rotting heart of the baby

rejected by life years ago.

 

So when my arms reach out and flail

beat

against harsh white emptiness, who is it

that waits; beyond that closed door?

 

 

2 Comments Add yours

  1. A poem with great strength. Beautiful. Happy Writing

    Liked by 1 person

    1. ipsyb says:

      Thank you! 🙂

      Liked by 1 person

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