Sea of Green

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She’s been dead for so long,

withered,

dry husk walking

on dry bones.

But the seeds of Truth

found resting place,

just enough soil

to take root in fragile heart –

and hope blooms,

tentative,

a fragile wildflower

in a barren wasteland,

rays of brilliance

in a sea of green.

Gargoyles

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Remnants of the Thaw,

gargoyle generals perch at the frayed edges

where will and heart collide,

talons claiming territory long held

by wintry grapple hooks.

Softer places have long-receded hairlines,

but strongholds will not easily

surrender to Spring sunlight.

Resistance fighters

set up perimeters,

deflect detection,

resort to guerrilla warfare,

pulling punches designed to discourage all inroads

into sensitive spaces;

so I

invite the Light

to shine the brightest here,

where angels fear to tread.

I watch gargoyles

give up the ghost

and limp,

liquefied,

 wax to a flame,

puddling at my feet,

whimpering to my shouts of

triumph.

Skin

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This crackle finish,

this patina of pain

makes her a marked woman.

Grafts,

layers of insulation

against the raw oozing

egress of bodily fluids

let loose from crushed conduits,

won’t stitch to spasms

or bind to burns.

What she needs

is not patches

but a new suit of skin,

armour-clad and seamless,

third-degree love-pierced offering,

to cover smarting soul

with the Balm of Gilead.

Thaw

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That tingling,

that raw, pounding pain

is the cost of coming alive.

She’s subsisted frozen,

a suspended non-animation

for so long,

the thaw comes at a price.

Blackened extremities

feel the pulse-surge

and scream in the flow –

but only the living feel.

Only the breathing palpitate.

Only the viable

thaw…

Just Two of Us

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Just  two of us

in single skin,

Dark and Light

at odds within;

Dark pulls hard

to blacker space,

Light yanks back

to trusting place.

Dark holds hurt,

and cradles pain;

Dark won’t grow,

so wounds remain.

Where Light reflects

in truest form,

Dark dies back,

and hope is born.

Moment in the Sun

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Caught in the midst of an endless cycle,

she alternates between

numb and inflamed, cool and intense.

The roller coaster between

Passion and Apathy makes for a very bumpy ride.

Feeling stirs fear

that she will lose control, drip into oblivion,

find herself

a puddle to be trifled with under hob-nailed boots.

But turning a cold shoulder,

selling herself to indifference only leaves her stiff at the sidelines,

forgetting to inhale.

She tells herself that the next time the warmth comes,

she’ll let go completely;

at least if she melts, she’ll have her moment

in the sun…

The Cut

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The sap you’ll bleed will tell the tale;

we all know the drill.

The  shock of the first prying probe,

the initial cut,

slices through more than skin.

But it’s the continual pounding,

the interminable perforation,

the ongoing flurry of jaw-jolting blows

that will have you screaming Uncle.

Just when you feel that the hammer has hit your heart

and defeat is inevitable,

the bird finds its worm,

and the real pest is revealed.

The blood you’ll cry

will cauterise the hole;

only the scab will

testify to your

cut

when you find the sky

with outstretched arms…