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Saturday, October 8, 2011

Stained Hands

I can not touch a poem
And not have it smeared on my heart
Like a leaky pen stains the hands
 embracing its power
And like the poor one, thin and
yearning for a cure to all he craves--
in the dark alleys, his ways lost,
paying each price
a temporary relief would cost.
relief from the cracks
 that left his life broken
and not just his back

This
 if nothing else
perhaps not a permanent cure
but a little glimmer of an
unknown distant star to lure…
night away from darkness.

There’s just something about
How it all comes together
That makes me hope
All lives would do the same
Replacing cocooned curses
With butterflied verses
Making sense to my senses
And lifting me alive
How a heart and a little ink
Can make a soul thrive
and become
 infinitely free
I can not touch a poem
Without it touching me.

~Trish

7 comments:

  1. Brilliant!

    ~Maddie

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  2. You are amazing. <3
    Simply beautiful.

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  3. I really liked this. I have this picture in my head of tattoos, permanent souvenirs of every moment shared, a living testimony of love and loss and life.

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  4. "I can not touch a poem
    Without it touching me".

    Excellent my dear!

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  5. Thank you, my lovely, favorite night owls!

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  6. When I am sickly, you make me feel better! Thank you!

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  7. aw! I'm sorry you aren't feeling well, Gary!

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