My soul hides in a solemn trench
along the battlefield of the mind.
It seeks cover from arrows,
those cast by your past,
as this narrow gorge seems more like a grave
than a safe haven.
Fear hovers like a forest canopy
and its branches fall upon me,
pummeling the remains of what might be
labeled as hope.
It is as black as what you allowed to slither inside you,
as dark as what you licked away and swallowed,
and it lingers on your tongue with every kiss.
Yet, I kiss you and consume the demons
like a sin-eater,
praying not to suffocate in vomit
and for a ladder to alight and free me from this abyss.
I reach for the notebook in my pocket
and craft your name behind “Dear”
as if it were a painting on a master’s easel;
my pen rendering reflections with every stroke
atop your body.
I sign Love and
crumple this parchment,
leaving it to rot in this endless chasm,
probing the fiends within me to be merciful
and allow my celebration to form anew.
JAN/FEB 2020 AUTHOR OF THE MONTH at Spillwords.com
Greg Massey is an American writer and poet who resides on his farm in Olive Branch, Mississippi. He obtained his B.A. in Liberal Arts from the University of MS and an M.A. in English/Creative Writing from Southern New Hampshire University. Greg is an English professor at Northwest Community College.