This is something new.

Never done anything like this before.

How to start?

A pome I writ I think.

The beginning of something I call “The Pheonix Cycle”.

Hope you enjoy:


(i) The Wound That Never Heals

Looking just like a spectre at the feast,
she stumbled in to mourn those yet to leave.
Behind her darkened shroud she hid her eyes,
as with a careless shrug she cast away their alibis.
As she raised a toast to those left lost and lonely
the second hand suddenly started running slowly.
She then sat there at the bar and drank her fill,
still living with the wound that never heals.

Laying down her glass she made to stand,
her veil was whipped away by the ceiling fan.
Her startled eyes now revealed to those stood around,
in their shadows she sought all they thought they’d found.
There was much within their looks which turned aside,
they held much within they felt a nameless need to hide;
all trying their hardest to conceal how they think it feels
to be the only one living with the wound that never heals.

Looking like an angel dressed in black,
the doyennes of suburbia all stepped back.
She moved straight through their ranks as if a breeze,
asking each and every one for their beliefs.
Her hollow laughter reflected the dismay
she found in the false gods to whom they prayed.
She cursed all of the idols that they’d built
while living with the wound that never heals.

The cloak she wore lay dark across the night,
and there were those who recognised their plight,
those who saw the blood in pools about their feet,
and those who could still taste the ashes of defeat;
a world groaning ‘neath the weight of those who feed,
their diets stuffed with jealousy, avarice and greed.
She’s searching out the ones who know what’s real,
while living with the wound that never heals.

The midnight mile she walked at ten-to-ten,
as a way was sought to jump their barbed-wire fence.
Searchlight flickers flashed across the ground,
exposing those whose hands and feet were bound.
They’d thought to change direction would prove easy,
not believing until they fell it just might not be.
Those cries still heard echoing ‘cross the fields
belong to those living with the wound that never heals.

The shelter that was sought was slowly leaking:
Wooden walls around them, night-time breathing,
whispered words exchanged over a fire,
“I’ve thirty pieces of silver here with which to buy her.”
A shaking head was glimpsed deep within the gloom
as some still felt their rose tattoo in bloom;
they’re all looking for the way to pay outstanding bills
while living with the wound that never heals.

Alone she stood, a silhouette against the night,
waiting for those tricks that are held there in the quiet.
She feels the chill and pulls her cloak in close,
disguising all those fears she fears now lay exposed.
She says, “There are many souls lost here in the dark,
many yet to find a home in another’s heart,
many who’ve forgotten how good life sometimes feels,
while still living with the wound that never heals.”

Her words echoed deeply in the silence surrounding,
and those with the need were the ones who found them.
Comfort was drawn from all it was that they concealed
rather than what could be read in all they had revealed.
The flames of the fire grew, crackled and danced,
warmed the hands of those who’d thought to take the chance;
those who tried a different deck from which to deal
while living with the wound that never heals.

Silently she strode out into the night quite alone,
hoping there might be growth in the seed she’d sown.
She could offer only suggestions, paths they just might follow,
for they were the ones who had to live with their sorrow.
She knows that lives are lived each to their own,
all the way back to the beginnings from which we’ve grown,
knows there’s not one of us can tell another how it feels
to be living with the wound that never heals.


There, the beginning of a six-poem cycle.

I will follow with the second, From the Womb Unto the Grave, in a day or two.

Copyright me!

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