A place for prayer.
A Poem
Published on January 21, 2008 By Hazel Target In Poetry
I’m told hearing is the vibration of tiny hairs
tiny fragile hairs swimming in yellow fluid
twitching and clenching to the beat of life's roar

like the wasted boxer with lifeless eyes
a handful of hits for the knock-out
and every fall is a high-pitched tone
the last shriek of a dying nerve

I remember the stomach-twisting boil
the first hair of innocence tearing away
the pounding of lonely adolescent hearts

two bodies ruined together, forever
waves crashing together, dissipating
writhing in the awful pain of relief

and did my innocence die shrieking,
pawned in the search for connection
sold into the slavery of guilt?

I'd like to think I held something back
that this high-pitched tone of a headache
means there is something left to die

and so I stand careful guard
not daring to inquire too closely
for fear I watch over a tomb.

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