5/18/03

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  • Anger

    5/18/03

    We
    try to siphon out
    the serpent's poison

    Our
    bleak, barely beating hearts

    --sluggish blood--

    fists to the wounds,
    strength ebbing
    --breathes gasping, broken in our lungs.

    Bitten by jealousy and hate
    we are like tempest seas
    all fury and chaos,

    we've eclisped the sun in our anger.

    We
    failed to catch the voices
    screaming obscenities from our throats
    and found ourselves
    drowning like wreckage.

    These

    gaping wounds

    are like silent mouths
    crying in anguish.
    These
    words, blood red,
    gushing in thick hot streams

    -our hands too full
    of prejudice and pride
    to catch them.

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    A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

    SarahGene’s Poems (12)

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