Count

by 31   Oct 10, 2022


My heart is trash
It spills its juice
With each slowing beat
With each fading breath
I count in fours
One of birth
One of love
One of reflection
One of death

My head is a sludge
Of great storm clouds
With each flash of light
And each crash of thunder
I count in threes
One upon high
One of dirt
One of under

My skin is an old rag
Washed in by many users
Beastly claws and talons
Gloved hands true and fair
I count in twos
One in learning
One in despair

My self is fallen shadow
On rocks greenish hue
In lands of weeds and milk
Of stitches forever sewing
I count in one
One of unknowing

    report violation
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Latest Comments

  • 2 years ago

    by BOB GALLO

    Your sadness sounds poetical, but thanks God not incurable. I like your stanzas.
    Why weed and milk?

    • 2 years ago

      by 31

      Thanks Bob,
      My sadness its louder, then quieter, at the moment it’s loud.
      It’s hard to describe my thinking but one way would be
      I was thinking of weeds that grow without love or nurture
      As many of us must do (in so there is strength)
      And how they are often looked down upon for it (as weeds)
      And how many of us who have love and are nurtured (milk) covet it
      And who are celebrated. (Ha I suppose the cream)

      There was something else I was getting at I can’t quite grasp.

      Thanks again.

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