13thWR

SUFFER'S PROM

On tripods of our troubled times,
I take the lens of meager lyrics
aiming sharp emotion's dart.
I cannot fathom throbbing minds,
depression's crucifix you wear.
Deep malaise without a name
doctors see and cannot stitch.
Peine forte et dure - compulsions
to erase your life.
All my horrors have been tied
to clearer things. My dolor
full of crimson gashes growing scars
and healing into almost smiles.
Yours are deeper than the flesh.
Pounding slams of migraines
beating on the walls.

Vivisection of your dreams.
Weariness as heavy as unwelcome
anvils on a bench. Sentences.
Travail and torment.
Games we play in fertile soil--
brighter than spring's daffodils.
My pink azalea attitude
must irritate your grating pain.
I am deeper than those shades.
Take off lampshades of your ways
and look into the blinding light.
String quartets of agony
are not a Schubert Waltz to play.
So talk to me.
Stop dressing in those suits and ties
of suffer's prom.
Denial's sweet saloon is full
of all your cobwebs and your ghosts.

- Janet I. Buck