poetry

escape

’twasn’t faith
which taught me of it
which made me a believer
’twasn’t religion’s fiction
’twasn’t even love–
for all its doubtful shadows
‘neath its amber-glisten shimmer
’twas pain, absence’s remembrance
that first time
this, my soul, be known– again
heavy, with sorrow
wordless, within its well of tears
those woes it’d never spill over
and I pondered
tho it’d be always a child
who’d been its mother
and I wondered
how– through golden elation
and primality’s crimson passion
and loss’ stilled-water ache
how– a thing such as this
could survive, eternally
no– when I shall pass, finally
so shall its stone-satchel burden

as, tho it’d oft wish
to escape me
we are one

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Eric

I've come to write.

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