Scars that won’t heal
Pain that cannot absolve
Now
What are you
But an empty crest of
Everything you once were?
Once immaculate, un-clever,
Never mutilated.
Seeking in despair
For sentience
From without—
Blinding lines of lyrics
Taking all your minutes, and
Countless, heart-wrenching
Silver-screen Plots,
Stealing away
All the hours—
Do you remember,
Or do you
Simply fall down low,
Empty
Once again,
When the Show’s over—
Still searching
Voraciously, tears lost—
No hindsights,
For the next wave
Of manufactured emotions?
After great pain, a formal feeling comes–
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs;
The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,
And Yesterday, or Centuries before?
The Feet, mechanical, go round–
A Wooden way
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought,
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone–
This is the Hour of Lead–
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons recollect the Snow–
First–Chill–then Stupor, then the letting go.
—After Great Pain, A Formal Feeling Comes, Emily Dickinson.
I cannot
Be a Watcher
and
A Doer
All at once.
My love
Does not forget,
And remains
Unlike the beasts
Of Burden
That surround
You.
“Sometimes
It’s like someone
Took a knife, baby,
Edgy and Dull,
And cut
A Six-Inch Valley
Through the middle
Of my Soul.”
—I’m On Fire, Bruce Springsteen.