Upon The Harbouring of Sickness In Death...
With endearment, you gently lift
the dutch door top of the pinewood,
but, only because within it sleeps
the one who understood you, and-
the chaos between your hemispheres,
the delphian orbs and cherubs,
ossified...within your abstract wiring,
and loved you through it all;
a love that bore no substitute.
who will care for me now, you ask;
NO-ONE! - says a voice from years gone,
as you stare at the vericose veins
an old cracked-ceilings ruse;
you affix a sybilline stare
of lament that bears no mercy
from your myriad of strange behavior
harbouring within your brain,
pricking the spines live nerve-endings
like a sterile darning needle;
[Remembering when you were a child]
that your mum laid down gently
upon the kitchen stovetop flame,
'fore she'd take the metal tongs,
pinched the needle at its head,
said, 'mummy could never hurt you'
now I need thatfrowning finger
and pull that splinter out
Oh! Mummy, it burns! It burns!
So hot... flame stinging hot, it was
thwarting like a matchstick tip
one just freshly struck....
so effectingly that your tongue
sensed the sage-smoked sulfur
with Mummy's every stroke
'til her job completed with a hug
and kiss, atop a slice of key lime pie.
who will know where the needles are, you ask;
NO-ONE! - says the Modigliani-
hanging on the pale green wall,
the stunning woman reminds you
of her, except for the cold white eyes.
She's with the sleeping now
where all good mothers go,
and thats how love in Death must be
beyond the pine, with the cherubs...
but only when harbouring sickness.
_________ FjR/10/12 _________
poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
Added by Poetry Lover
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