Post-argument pain beats through hollow hearts
like birds behind bars fluttering nowhere.
Leaping words cascade into rocky landscapes
and dry woods rise between eyes.
Although in the distance
a brook’s current glistens deliverance,
phantom pain persists, pulling its chest up,
righting its wronged regality,
denying deliverance into love’s sweet flow.
Eventually, the current rubs smooth words
hanging out there, all craggy and sharp
wishing they’d never been said.
New moments peer up through earth in the wood,
shining there, lighting the dark.
Brenda Warren 2012
Visit The Sunday Whirl.
Process Notes: The first line originally read “phantom pain;” I changed it to “post-argument pain” to provide a richer context.