Exile of the Injured

 

 

     My eyes see the snarl,

Viciousness and horror,

A face like stone

As my body - feels the blows,

And my mind,

Numbed against a tyranny

That’s muted in our society,-

Accords only condolences

And sorrow.

 

My whispered thoughts,

Sharp trailers as if shot by tracers

Through a dark night sky,

Makes incoherence a battlefield

Of my heart,

     And the deed is done;–

Again and again and again -

Throughout eternity.

 

     This disastrous truth,

Makes mockery of men

When only in infancy; becomes -

The understanding of this world,

(But only spoken of in muted tones),

And nothing hurts as bad

Once you learn to let false tears

Befall the ground where your

Spirit lies like a fading ghost

At the end of time,

For you’re already dead.

 

     This truth hurts,

Rejection carries the lonely –

Way beyond where blood red

Be love,

     And warmth be never felt,

And so the handicap is done,

Walking head down through

Icy winds – without the coverlet

Of youth to inspire and invigorate

A life,

     Already far too old

To be encouraged to engage,

 

     The sky and there I look upon

Willingly to give acknowledgement

I’m real,

     Only sears my eyes to squint –

Its ice making burns upon my soul

Within a blue that’s so cold,

So cold I dare not breathe,

 

     This truth hurts,

Love is not blind,

But hidden in recesses of

Lost books and sorrowful melodies,

But my handicap,

My handicap deems

I cannot seek it out,

For once it was with me but now

It dares not impale its hope

Upon these ageing features,

And knowingly,

Knowing all the places that it lives,

I’ll let it hide within its world of silence,

For it cannot talk,

It cannot talk no more.

 

Michael J Waite 4^th November 2013.