Pockets of Pain

Pockets of pain unendurably blamed.
Like fields of flowering scum,
once come alive within,
they grow in an amoebic infestation.
(Was it there within
some battle’s happenstance
in lives now past the brink
of mortal memory
that you begat yourself?)

Awelling as you dwell within the dark;
loving your unknown encampment.
Dazzling, your appetites expand;
wanting more and more
until pure need, unmasked at last
whispers in a voice so undeniably sincere
that we adhere in blind obedience.

Until we come to know again
this pain once pocketed within the past
and choose again, to move
(oh great dispersion, come at last)
beyond its bonds . . .

? Michaelette ?

Copyright© 2001 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home . . .