At Last to Feel Regret for Having Killed

At last to feel regret for having killed
myself, flesh and soul, systematically
over the years, though slowly and with care;
to peel that onion, drill through the numbness,
discovering jagged fossils of rage;
with surgical precision discharging
the ancient grief blocked by congested pain;
to find the core of self-flagellation
concealed within a fog, now lifting, rain
soaking my face, to bless me, thus washing
away the guilt and loss, dissolve their chain.

Disaster

I met with Disaster along the way;
She looked about a thousand years of age,
And tall as mountain ash but blind and mute,
And nude, aside from diamond knee-high boots.

I must have met her many times in guise,
Perhaps with grief that hurts, with grim surprise,
I felt her in the scent of homeless cries, 
Or faint sadistic laughter of a brute.

I shook her hand despite the nameless rage
That wrapped my body fully like a suit
Of sweat and shakes shooting from wilted roots, 
That feast on acid deep inside my eyes.

Don't you demand from me consoling lies 
To help you sleep soundly beneath the skies
That birthed Disaster long ago one day,
And doomed us both to meet unknown, en route....

The Ghosts of a Room

When the moon shines red
And the darks cascade
When the length of room
Has become light years

When the ghostly hush
In the silence yawns
Through a hollow tune
With the breeze for tongue

Now compassion swoops
Through the cloud of tears
Down on injured hearts
Filled with lonely fears

Filled with homeless rage
And a scalding shame
And strangled with guilt
Of venom-clawed blame

Then compassion flies
With the hearts in beak
Over ruby lakes
What is there to seek?

Soon the wordless room
Breathes the scented dawn
Everything the same
But the dew-kissed lawn

Shoulds and ifs and whys
Never here reside
Outside the window
Of the room inside

Only lady bugs
And where grass now parts
There the earthworms romp
Wee-little, their hearts.

Voice

I crammed the words in tight iambic feet.
"Speak in feet or hold your peace," so addressed
me then, a voice like mine‒but one distressed.     
I speak in pain, of loss and rage that eat
my bones, at night; each day, fatigue my heart,
they twist my soul...and drain my love‒"Silence!"
said the raising voice relentlessly, roared,
"I guard your heart and soul.  This pain you'll not
contain without my aid, your rage impairs
all your sense, so fear emotions unchecked...."

Silently out the words I let, freely roam, 
atop my pain galloped we past meadows in rain,
the air had bled seventeen quarts of cherry tart, 
the cawing ink (heaven-spilled, erased by time),  
directed me, my face (tear-soaked), home.