Of Secrets We Are Made
Years ago
in psychotic stupor
or schizo-affective nightmare
my brother dug into the clay muck
of ourstory.
He flung
the muddy
words onto the page and
into my life when
he delivered the mess to a
friend.
Hands sullied, eyes burned by
earthy secrets,
I balked,
embarrased at the lies and
fossils he unearthed
I couldn’t yet name
or remember.
Now I unwind the words that snaked
their way into my psyche.
They followed
me through the years
to where I am now without memory
still. But I hold the dim light out,
reaching into my history,
tenuous,
fearful of what truths
are hidden in soiled words
from
a mind made
of the same stuff
as mine.
Been facing the shadows myself lately. Though it’s not the shadows that scare me, but the movement within them…
Oh Jennifer, how well you tell what you tell. Thank you.
This is lovely. I love the simplicity of the words, forcing us to concentrate on the essence of what you’re saying. It deals with dark subjects, but in a way that’s beautiful.
Thank you!
Very powerful…
Beautifully expressed, the sentiment really tugs at one.