Word after word after word

 So, it's said, 

a word after a word after a word, is power. 

I wonder what a wound after a wound after a wound makes! 

Every wound followed by

a deafening silence. 

Every memory, a dying pulse. 

One dying pulse after another, after another. 

How for years, 

my body was a house, 

to you, to your desires, 

expressed and withheld. 

And everything else 

that you moved in with. 

Rage, contained and uncontained, 

often black and blue. 

And that burning hue of red, 

just before the scar turns blue. 

Remorse, shame, guilt, 

agony, distrust, revenge, 

and that endless search 

for meaning, 

in deceptive contrusion of mechanical motions; 

two dying animals, 

only dying next to each other, 

night after night! 

Endless searching, 

night after night after night. 

Endless waiting, day after day after day. 

The more I think about it, 

the less it comes to mean. 

The more I wonder, 

the lesser I feel. 

The emptiness that it houses now, 

my body, 

the vacuousness of the soul! 

The drowning in grief the heart feels, 

talking about it, 

every word after word after word, 

the helplessness, 

the loss! 

Not all expression is power!

Sometimes it's just barren pain.

October 31st