PROSE OF PAIN
A pearl wouldn’t be
Were not for the grit.
Inside every one
Is its grain of sand.
Born of its own travail,
Through heat and cold,
Pounded against cliffs,
Piled up on shores,
Minusculey etched crystals
Seep into the shells,
There to cut and dig,
Creating punitive perfection…
A pearl, cool, round and smooth,
Pried from clenched jaws
Born amid the twitching death-
Throes of its birthing mass…
A seed, cool, round and smooth,
Has also borne travail.
It’s pounded by the wind
Heated, cooled, soaked and dried.
Finally cracking from pressure
Within as well as without
Spilling forth its all,
Unwinding into destiny
A moth endures transformations,
Morphing from egg to worm
To shrouded slurry
Before unfurling as intended.
Surely each form is of travail.
Letting go, bottling up,
Flinging outward into free fall
Borne on wings dusted with plight.
I, too, have borne travail,
From what can’t be held inside,
To what can’t escape,
The burning pressure increases
Till words seep out my shell
Etching their burning path
Across the cool, round, smooth,
Bourne of my being…
If I write,
Pity the pain
That bursts forth
Into prose….
If I don’t write
Pity the pain
That lies…
Waiting…
Watching…
Writhing…
Waiting…
By cindy
6/8/2023
2 Replies to “PROSE OF PAIN”
Those are yours alright! . We at least need to get these people stealing images to start blogging! They probably just did a image search and grabbed them. They look good though!
You could definitely see your skills within the work you write. The arena hopes for even more passionate writers such as you who are not afraid to say how they believe. At all times follow your heart. “There are only two industries that refer to their customers as users.” by Edward Tufte.