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Balm
by Lacy D PhillipsI lay flat and inhale the autumn,
laying away stores of sun-warmed hours
for the long months of short days.
I am waiting for the hurt to decay,
for the vagueries of anger to decompose
as if the byproduct of healing
(which I suppose to be hope)
could somehow be burnt
to fuel my triumph over suffering
or as an offering...
Time has a mind all its own in this season.
Whole afternoons drift and flare out
like dust motes in a shaft of light.
Lunch hours devoured.
I am waiting for my life to flare
or for the dispersal of despair.
09/27/2006 Posted on 09/27/2006
Copyright © 2026 Lacy D Phillips
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Charlie Morgan on 09/30/06 at 03:42 AM ...lacy, well said, we all [in some fashion or another] are awaiting the Balm or salve, or caress or warm eye-to-eye giggle, a moist palm of another could be the balm, eh?...great poetics, moves along nicely...peace, chaz |
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