Mute

Lost for words, lost in thought, waiting for it to coalesce 
Watching birds fly from the fields to feed their chicks high in the nest,
There’s a numbing wind that blows and permeates my mind,
Struck dumb by its chill fingers, that leave my eyes dull and blind, 
Balanced on the edge of nothing, impervious to the drop,
Watching winter fields thaw in prospect of the crop,
Drizzle rain across my face that I might feel alive,
Let the cold drops slap my skull and help it to revive, 
Perhaps the pain of winter rain might wake me from this slumber,
Numb day after numb days stretch out too far to number,
Until every passing moment is both grinding and acute, 
And rather than relate this, I set my thoughts to, “Mute.”
But just beneath this frosted skin run fierce rivers of boiling ire,
I just need to crack the crust and dive into the raging fire, 
And the sharp sting of searing heat might lift me from this mire,
And unseal my frozen mouth, if I but sit upon the pyre.

◄ Creeping Paralysis

Goodbye Old Friend ►

Comments

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Jason Bayliss

Fri 12th Mar 2021 17:49

So true Aviva, all rivers lead to the sea. Just sometimes some bugger pops a dam in your way. 😁❤❤

J. x

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Aviva Rifka Bhandari

Fri 12th Mar 2021 12:32

Incredibly told. It seems as if some of our poetry has mapped the same places. This reminds me strongly of the zone where I wrote 'Tongue Tied', told differently but I'm pretty sure just a different view of the same place.

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