I roam like a withered cloud,
the white foam of cotton
against blue long gone.
Why isn’t there comfort in madness?
My mind builds a memorial for every demon
that has left its footprint on my chest.
There is no ink in dead flowers, yet I chase
their petals trying to find enough color
to fill a single thought.
Is sanity a stroke of luck or a creature
some can tame while others are cursed
with feral.
I wish unfinished would leave bread crumbs
so my brain could be tricked into believing
life had a map.
Insanity is a parking lot where I watch
everyone escape, but me.
Susie Clevenger 2024
Powerful, Susie. Really a glimpse of a bit of madness. I have sometimes had similar feelings to your last stanza.....when it seems there is no way out!
ReplyDeleteDark indeed, but dark is absolutely allowed at the Word List. So glad to see you there, Susie! Your poem is full of confusion, pain, and frustration, not easy things to live with or describe well, but you've done it here.
ReplyDeleteWow, Susie, this poem leaves me speechless. Any words I can find wont do justice to what you have put together here. Fantastic writing.
ReplyDelete"There is no ink in dead flowers, yet I chase
ReplyDeletetheir petals trying to find enough color
to fill a single thought." - So good! Glad to see you here!