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