Monday 15 October 2012

Back to pen and paper



Truth is he nor she knows what the fuck they’re proclaiming.
On nights like this these they go to sleep heart on sleeve, tears settled in ocean deep eye sockets, feet weary , skin worn and hearts that have been holding prayers together for years now, shaky
They fall asleep just as confused as everybody else.
She falls asleep just as confused as everybody else.
The scent of her black hair lingers in his dreams and he feels sad that he’s won more battles than she has.
He feels guilty that he has a greater resilience than she has.
She,
She stills struggles to hide her scars
She goes to him for advice sometimes.
His words never quite seem to offer the right kind of hugs
Poor thing,
He believes he merely stumbled upon victory
He has no great speech to give or shields to lend.
Never really had any freedom songs or war chants,
But he swore on all the blood he swallowed that it had to be for something.
He swore his beloved would never have to bear feet on her back, that her spine would never be crippled by any unspoken slavery.
But she’s bruised in more ways than he can see or comfort
She cries more tears than his words can dry or heal and houses an emptiness too large for physical space.
And all he can tell her is to hold on to her broken prayers.
Build a canoe of words from her broken language and row deep deep deep into his arms.
There, he can't promise her will be paradise,
But at least the demons won’t be as plenty
“Baby,” he’ll tell her,
“Let this proximity fill the emptiness of your jaded heart.
Let us be an army,
Us two broken souls.”

 Kerry-Ann Davis Copyright ©2012

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