temper
jackson lewis | Fall 2021
A delicate glance broke the silence of years
Taunted scars raged against captivity
Void of malice, dreadful all the same
Such tearaway streams, aching and wild
Pursuing nonsense in its entirety
Did churn amidst a fury-tuned abdomen
Beckoning rapids so merciless, so betrayed,
He scorched that faithful throat
Puppeting an urgent buckling in weary knees
A lucid grip long thought caged
Crept along that unsheltered spine
Rattled those fragile sensibilities to a point of fracture
A grim reminder of the truths
Desperately stamped into tea-stained carpets
Locked behind elegant therapeutics cordially
Arranged—gleeful, coiling ribbons
To mute that writhing neon as long
As violent you need this sirens
Swept neglect between innocent eyelids
Tell me—who might render shame and authenticity
With equal passion?
It was all the wretch could do
To lie, infant-like, in quivering silence
Terrified of the familiar
Fearful, once more, to act
Lest he erupt into something regrettable
And don his old skin