As I have gone over my older posts, and rooted around in my poetry binder. I found that a few poems need a little mature seasoning to them. They have been fermenting long enough in the old oak cask and I figure I can blend in some of my recent experiences with them to make them more palatable. So this is a poem written in the Early 2000’s (00′ or 01′) that I recently edited. If you read this in a post a few weeks ago, you many want to revisit it. I think you will find it goes down a little smother and just a little easier; like a finely aged bourbon. Enjoy!
Gentle fingers touch my soul, tugging on the laces that cover my emotions.
Unwrapping, the hands work,
Pulling the flesh aside, smudged, by sin.
Eyes open in fear, never have I gone this far, let someone touch that place.
There is no need for anesthesia.
The Physician nods and smiles, I have to remember that smile…
I am certain the pain is overwhelming, but I can’t feel it…
Naked I lay on the dirt of logic, available, defenseless, and vulnerable…
In mere minutes my tumor is exposed.
I have hate, much hate, such hate.
Gentle hands grasp and wretch the rotted soul.
Bloody finger extract the blackened hate.
Pain course the body again, feeling is being restored.
Exhausted I lie in the mud; mud of blood and flesh, mine.
My exposure matter-less.
So unclean I was.
Forgiving hands start the stitching,
The crimson-stained fingers replace each soul lace.
I have to remember…No! I need to forget,
Forget the hate.
Gentle hands weave so graceful the soul coat,
Repaired me they have and well.
Gentle hands weave so well.