The Martyrdom of a Realist

I watched the darkness;

dissolving, morphing, quickly

receding from the fruity light,

as if rejected medicine.

Left behind for an identical,

obliviously tranced away in a hospital,

grants my stained naked feet,

to walk among these blistering tracks.

A young warrior once inside me,

stains my fierce cheeks; blackberry blood.

Ready for a pretend war,

within my swollen heart.

Passion releasing like a narcotic mist,

with every shattered shivered bottle broken,

is similar to the red leaking, trickling from my goose bumped knees,

caused by the annual thorn bush races.

The summer of a reckless railroad,

bear-trapped between innocence and knowledge.

I am a child of the identical sensations,

of joy and pain.

I am a child of,

my own titillations.