No means to afford the psychotropic medications
The wheel is turning
A plot off course
Keel without rudder
Braving storms in circles
Tossed about taking hits
Warm hand in hand
Tender Voice Speaking…
But can’t hear a thing above the roar of a fierce wind
Firm grip
held close
Yet still…
Beyond reach
The breaking heart
Suffering in silence
Pain without violence
No bruises
perforations
lacerations
broken bones
Seen from afar
In wheelchairs
On crutches
Countenances belying
Being gripped in anguish’s clutches
Becomes known
The torn garments
The stained Filthy rags
The weathered jeans
Too tender on the skin
To want to exchange for new
The physical threats
The pushes and shoves
The jostling about
Fitful night dreams
Night sweats
Tossed and turned
The fill
The agitation
The cleansing cycle
The spin
The rinse
The tumbling dry
The ironing
The sorting
The hanging
The storing
When all is said and done
Still picking lint from each other’s clothes
And Bloodstains remain…
On brand new dress shirts
From a few pins left in it
And if it doesn’t fit
Once removed…
How can one ever get it to go back
Neatly folded
Into a clear protective sleeve?
Once made aware of
The only freedom
Freely given
At great cost
We find fault in others
While history blaringly declares
We have burned, beheaded, hung, tortured
Marched against
Slain our own…
Time and again
Just as we do now
Infiltrated by treachery
Closeness…
Closing the gap of striking distance
Betrayed with a kiss
Eagles, hawks and owls ever vigil
Observe in silence
On fence-posts
Anthony Gomaz
