the poet

Life thins her
tearing across her skin,
shreds of being
trickling down down
like rivulets of blood
that never cease to flow.

Time wears her
bears down upon her,
bending her over,
molding, forcing her on
with merciless intent,
or without purpose at all.

Man abuses her
refuses her voice,
rejects the veracity
of her very being
while craven crawling
between her taut thighs.

And she?

She sings her!
She rises and rages and
whispers a wondrous vision
that none can deny,
so vibrant and whole
despite the scars.

Or perhaps
because of them.

5 thoughts on “the poet

  1. Oh my dearest George, the way you see right into the heart, the center, of a thing. Of a beaten down thing. Of me. I simply adore this, and you. Thank you, angel. Thank you beyond what words could ever say…. “rivulets of blood” … “the veracity of her very being” ….you are a master, your words flow and capture the very physical nature of a suffering psyche. I can’t tell you how much your words do heal me.


    • It is more than just a pleasure for me to find the courage to write about you. You have inspired me so much, mo ghràidh–and not just to write the verses that I do, but to feel and to think and to be beyond the boundaries I had far too zealously built around myself. Thank you, Allison, for liberating me. You are the dearest, kindest friend a man could ever wish for.

      Liked by 1 person

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