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Poetry :: Articles :: Caron
In Their Words

All poems that appear have been submitted and reprinted with the permission of the authors. Copyrights are retained by the original authors and you must contact them for permission to reprint. If you have a poem you'd like to submit yourself please send it to POETRY@something-fishy.com

by: Carol

The wounds are deep and mortal.
I am doomed to this eternal misery;
a Flying Dutchman with a pretty face.

Joy cowers in the corner,
beaten one time too many.
Yet still her lips move in silent prayer
that a merciful hand might lift her up.

Hope lies buried in a box in the wilderness;
ransomed and helpless,
cruelly bound in the pitiless ligatures of self-loathing.
Her tears of grief only make her colder.

Screams of rage, cries of pain and frustration
stay pushed so far down
that only a low moan escapes.

In private, where no one will hear.

If I gave them voice would they ever stop?

Hunger dominates, growling incessantly,
yet will not allow itself be fed.

Am I the feast it craves?
Will it not be satisfied until my body
lies gnawed to the bones?

Fear taps my eyelids with brutal fingertips,
and will not let me rest.
I am so tired, yet it will not let me rest.

Death is a conspirator,
throwing an arm across my shoulder, smiling compassionately.
God forgive me, sometimes I can't help
resting my head against his chest,
and taking comfort in his promise.

My spirit flickers feebly,
sparking and sputtering
like a candle in the wind.

Why was I chosen for this?

©2000 Carol Martin. Reprinted with Permission.

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