By Maria Tegzes
Loss – lost
Dross – the frost that kills
Stills the breath of life.
The air that escapes
And drapes in clouds the limbs, the voice
That once sang loud,
Now stifled in rifling silence.
Grasp the tracks
That lead the way back
Erased from place
This tattered grace –
The gaze that strives
Yet dives so low.
No hold.
No poetry.
No myth.
No show of saving – miracle made.
But like a blade
That slices the heart
Entices the scimitar question mark
In the asking will rise
The pleading arc of the brow
That includes and exudes the question:
“How?”
I seek to release
From my purgatory sheath
This skin worn thin
Like some storybook sin
From the tales of old
That made the child cringe –
Eyes wide, but not awake.
To slake the thirst,
Face the worst
And be restored in a mirror-shard starburst –
