Semblance of A Blissful Life

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: August 09, 2018

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Submitted: August 09, 2018

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Raindrops hang heavy in the belly of darkening clouds. The world tilts,

leaves a gaping hole where the sun stood amid plump vapors of the uncloaked

summer sky, now a fugitive hiding from the impending eventide, a tight syllable

painting the delicacies of astral beings, disconsolate within their tenuous tombs.

The symphony of crickets and frogs does nothing to mend my weakness.

I sit, sleepless.

Knots of restless memories curl my fists. My tongue struggles to push out thoughts

wrapped in despair, but, again, my attempt to vomit the poisonous words fail. My hair

is snarled from hardened hands braiding threadbare, splintered strands. My bones,

brittle from years of hollow silence. My face gaunt, pallid, drawn, conceals horrors

I cannot unsee, unhear.

I sit behind a pinched smile and false pride and complacency.

Mother insists I am a masquerade of fragility, saturates my sorrows with morning

dew drops to cleanse away the unease of her guilt. She has altered me into puzzle

pieces, worn thin with tattered edges from flawed, fragmented ends forced together

to pull wide a smile — mendacious, discordant — when she has company.

My longing for reprieve grows weary in her desperate, pleading eyes.

I sit as night turns to dawn; a crow lingers on the tree branch outside my bedroom window,

utters a harsh cry as my eyes settle on him. He caws at me, berates me for my façade, my

happy charade, my quietude beneath the nervous, fixed gaze of Mother, but I am breathless

from efforts to imitate a semblance of a blissful life, incapable of speaking truth as she

sweeps away the residue to preserve her perfect world, her smile feigning an existence

absent of cruelty, dismissing misery like a broken twig on the path she keeps well manicured.

I sit to conceal the abhorrence holding my taut grin in place, my thoughts in a straight

line, my anxiety tacked to the walls in my throat.

Thunder cracks open the stillness of the sky. Lightning spoils the gossamer energies

of days lost. Rain smacks the window like beasts pounding their breasts, streak downward

like string instruments in an orchestra, create shadows like the bars of a prison cell. The chaos

of the storm is where I find my comfort, my stronghold against a lifetime of protecting

the enemy in combat. The black eyes of the crow consider me before he retreats (with shrieks

of loathing) in search of shelter and honest company.


© Copyright 2018 J Snow. All rights reserved.