If I feel any heat at all <br />it’s only the sting of bath water <br />not nearly hot enough to melt <br />the flesh off my bones- <br />but if it could; I’d stand <br />a skeleton before the harvest moon- <br />Whistling a melancholy tune, <br />to worship the autumn, as it comes <br />so slowly across the canvas of this rural life- <br />and seeps through the branches of <br />elderly trees, like a poison in the ribs, <br />rushing fast through the pulse, and faster still <br />to reach the center of the heart, <br />where it will cause catastrophic destruction <br />until it arrests or succumbs to the absolution: <br />the dying is what hurts and death, the surrender. <br /> <br />If I feel life at all, <br />It’s only the ache of a heart beating, <br />a slow Tic-Tock like a bomb leaking death <br />inside my head- <br />If I fill my lungs with breath <br />it’s not the exhalations of God, <br />or the perfume of angels- but; <br />the exhaustion of mourning and <br />the loneliness of being. <br /> <br />If I feel anything at all, other than <br />tranquil sorrow- <br />I must die to the dead, <br />for they’ve asked me <br />to let them rest.<br /><br />Amberlee Carter<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/revelations-in-a-sunday-morning-shower/
