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by W. Mahlon Purdin

There is an emptiness sometimes
In things that tighten and loosen
In a torturous rhythm.
It beats away and then it hugs;
It squeezes ’'til the life flows out,
Then resuscitates ’'til the life flows in.
Sometimes things look beautiful again,
And then the focus distances and
Everything gauzes over in a hazy
Blur of worry and doubt and grief.

In the day, your blank mind looks
And sees things that were and aren't
And expectation lifts and then slams
You to the bottom of a pit, alone.

I'm down there now looking up
Through the oubliette of unsurety:
There is the blue, there is the warmth;
How do I get out?

Time heals, they say. But,
What about a wound I want?
What about a wound that bleeds with love?
What if healing means forgetting?
Who would want to heal?

I was digging cobblestones again today.
Only needing a trench of about four inches,
At one point I dug it deep enough to climb into
And lay me down.


Posted on 12/27/2005
Copyright © 2024 W. Mahlon Purdin

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