In science they have a name for the nothing
now what is vacuum of the heart called?
happiness is muted like sound into plugged ears
and the blessing of life seems lackluster and bland

Shakespearian sonnets and Neruda’s thickened rue of words
make my sensibilities twinkle with life momentarily
only to fall dormant again as a crippled man’s toes might wiggle
a weak glimmer of hop in a long road of painful traction of the soul

Even these self flagellating words sicken me in my West Village home
lamenting my woes whilst I am provided for and healthy
housed, loved and appreciated, I still tear at my clothes
because that is what my sould calls for me to do

One day I will know true sorrow, cut to the bone
and perhaps that laceration will vent the demons
opening both an exit for the darkness and a crosswind entrance for joy

Maybe the pain will fall away naturally through life’s seasons
as have my milk teeth and stubbed purple toe nails
to allow the growth of a stronger me of more permanence

If that be the case, then this young buck is waiting for his stag’s horns.


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