The familiar voice, a constant whip, rips
Bits of metaphorical flesh to fleck
The truculent air like a moist firework.
If one listens— the recriminations
Claw, maul, snag and cut to reshape the past;
The pressure provides us old forms to drape
Like silk shrouds upon the dead and dying.
I hear the fears of my world, the cold doubt
Niggling each broken phrase, like a dry catch
At the back of the throat. I do not know
What to believe, or which patch can still fix
The tattered fabrications, or which will
Transform into the next tale to be told
Before the voice begins to speak again.
(December 29, 2017)
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