Monday, March 15, 2010


Incoming calls were not permissible
Within the walls of that mountain side park.
Proper channels required messages
Relayed to me. Responsibilities
Were mine to choose to answer or ignore.
Dialing the number for the sorrow,
I knew then, the very moment of death.
I heard the whispered story
Felt sympathy once again,
It stole into my fragile mind and burnt
Away the questions I would someday ask,
Searching for the truth, lost
Along that gulf coast.
Pieces of life were lifted afar
Strength shattered and left me trembling,
Hope fell apart, fragments of yesterday
Pierced my soul with pain and tainted blood
That pooled at my feet as I cried out loud
Has the world truly gone unloved?
Those around me took my heart, strange inmates
In our prisons of self-inflicted crimes
Where we stumble over demons inside,
Momentarily they could move the focus
To let me cry into their rain
Where my pain was sliced open so the sorrow could flow.
Fifteen hundred miles apart, no where near his side
Days were spent in tears with all that is bizarre,
Years it would take to understand and say goodbye
I wonder if I have been forgiven, never did I lie
When telling the truth of a dying man.
The soulful moaning is fresh in flesh
I would cut veins if it would flush out the hurt
Wash clean the spoken words that haunt
The earthly presence, the Godly word
My God, I survived you!
But not the part
Of being angry and alone
Without you.

Poetry by Janice Stiles-Boults ©1988, All Rights Reserved
Photograph courtesy of Google Images:
Edvard Munch, Weeping Nude, 1913.

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