poem

 The River ChagrinThe river made the sound of audible Bleeding as it cascaded down levelsOf shale, unleashed from a rent I ’ve torn in the tissues that Separate the living from the dead.  Even here in the shadows of waxing Crescent moon I can ’t escapeThe metallic reek of hemeDried to a line of purple-maroonLodged in the eaves of my nails In the darkness blood is the colorOf a bruiseAnd water is also the colorOf a bruiseIf only this river was just waterI wouldn ’t have to chooseBetween living an ever elaborate lieAnd dying straight awayUpon the sharp barb of self-inflicted truth Every stone I threw was a fingerToo skinny to plug a spurting dike, A stitch placed in a melting slab of iceAs if sheer will could hold together allI ’d set on the course of destruction I am the man in winterCondemned to watch the figuresTrapped beneath the frozen river Carried away in currents before I can show them the way out  Here on this tiered stoneI am sentenced to witnessA river roaring from a woundIn the world that I createdIt isn ’t my waterBut the river will always be Mine to own  10/23/23

Source: Buckeye Surgeon - October 23, 2023 Category: Surgery Authors: Jeffrey Parks MD FACS Source Type: blogs