The Sin of Succumbing, #42

You can hold me in tension
for so long, arms plastered back
a specimen on a slab,
or crossed, the left at twelve noon
the other clutching my ribs
while waiting in lines of traffic,
the hands spinning round and round.
You can hold me ‘tween your legs
for just a bit. I wish it
were longer, but that clamber
up the mountain, ecstasy
thought it may be, trails off
in a steep cliff. At the base
lies a sudden painless death.
You can hold me for only
so long, until the rubber
band snaps and the thin bungee
that keeps me in midair,
keeps me off the ground, midair,
off the ground eventually
surrenders and lets me down.
You can keep me ravenous,
angry, hungry, bored, tired,
sad, unpaid, ignored. Forget
for a breath that I exist.
It’s fine, think nothing of it.
But once that breath releases,
once you spot my brow stutter,
make no mistake, the morning
will be made of gluttony
and blood, the clouds will thunder
down and rain. I will repel
into the dark precipice
of silence you call brooding,
and I label, heavenly.
Call down into that chasm,
listen for an echo, wait
until a voice, not my voice,
calls back up to you, ashamed
of leaving, shamed for feeling,
shamed into a cold falling.
Now you can hold me. Hold me.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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