Crucible
Somewhere within the shattered crockery of your heart
there lies a secret that nobody knows, not even you
on given Sundays when the afternoon sun persuades
you to forget, or when you drink enough to achieve
obliteration, but mostly when good friends or family
flock around the periphery of your instability and sing
praises for minor achievements; but this secret will
destroy you whether or not you allow it; the hour
of our destruction is not up to us; trauma does not
recognize your planner; shame twists itself onto spines
and memories and sleep; so toss aside the books and
candles, and beg the grass to welcome your potential,
your feet to bless you with running, the pumping of
your veins to charge a system eternally encroaching
upon expiration, for the body knows, it always knows,
and unless you give vent to darkness, all light will dim.
