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.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
My community
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

Comments

katherinejones554

An experience creatively described when my twin sister was in the hospital

and I, at the age of nine, found railroad tracks deep in the woods in my 

neighborhood. 

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