She #3

[Epigraph: I wrote two previous poems that served as extrospective perception of a woman’s pain that goes unexpressed aloud; this is a new iteration of this perception.] 

for love.

I recognized her pain, 

the empty places 

where she used to be—a flower; 

I remember it—her,

as if it were my desolate 

shell I was observing. 

Where does the wounded—soul  

go for healing when it can 

no longer sustain the pain life has dealt

where does it go to hide 

from the rain?

She needs resolution, 

a re-solution to the brokenness that she

has been mending for what seems like years…

the tears…

feigning happiness 

in the shadows of sadness; 

the masquerade of madness.  

Wings clipped by decisions 

hard to regret, 

whose faces will never let her forget, 

there is no escape for her; 

at least the inhaled oxygen 

gets to be free—the only parts of her 

that gets to be released—free

how she envies breathing,

where is the ocean

to drown her dream in—to sink

all of her pains, where is

the sun that will dry the tears

like it has created the deserts

she now walks in, 

where is its convections

creating illusions of an oasis

that beckon her lips,

to taste its illusive seas,

savor its fruits,

which she can never consume

how treacherous a fate

for such a fragile soul

a sunflower hanging her head

upon the tears of time—dying 

to breathe.

 

© Tshombe Sekou

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