it is what it is...
Her Secret Pocket
She carried her losses inside her
secret pocket. Hidden under layers
of old scar tissue, lay her treasure
of waste products of lost love affairs.
Sometimes numb, sometimes raw and red,
the pouch yields a blend of bile, acid, and
trace pieces of her heart. Putrid is the stench
of it. And, she tries to cover the odor with
an aroma of artificial smiles and memories
of what never was.
Until today.
Today the pocket burst at its seams.
A swollen river of polluted tears tore through
the lining and covered her face in the filth
of rejection. Her eyes were pooled with images
of his unfaithfulness that ran with black streaks
of lies and deceit. The external look of sorrow
was nothing compared to the internal agony--
the murder of her fragile spirit. Gasping,
grasping for a lifeline, she struggled to stay
afloat in the torrent.
And there she is.
Now she holds on for there is nothing else
she can do. She has not the strength to swim
but she refuses to drown. So, she simply lingers
waiting for something, someone to rescue her.
Alone, in the flood of her own tears, she survives.
While she waits, she sews. Using the last thread
of her heart string, she fashions a secret pocket
in its lining. Each prick is a sign of life for it brings
her pain, a pain of her own making while she
once again builds a dam of the emotional scars
of the damned.
Until tomorrow...
Kathy Lockhart
1/08/07
Poetry by Kathy Lockhart
Read 1717 times
Written on 2007-01-09 at 00:03
Tags Loss Love Pain
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