Can one bear the glare
of unrequited criticism?
Of being naked, knowing
that clothes do not hide you?
Each awake second, each word
spoken, written on life’s chalkboard.
Finger nails drug across
the hardened shell of a heart.
The screeching a wail, a torment,
the sound of spinal collapse.
It is accompanied by colors,
glowing, swirling, magenta.
And still it echos even though
the nails are cracked and bloodied.
Skin worn to the flesh beneath
the scaring grit of condemnation.
The visit comes when there is
that subtle whisper, murmured words.
One can feel the penetrating
questioning eyes focus, boring in.
A quick turn and the clutch of crows
flurry nonchalantly into repose.
Cawing unintelligible squawks,
pecking at the void of their minds.
Night brings the warm cocoon,
that dark assurance of invisibility.
Release from the intensity of day
until dawn marches out the treadmill.
Then begins the twittering fork tongue
conspiracy of gossips ignorance.
Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour,