Burnt (a lament)

by Marilyn S. Ferrell

How do we wear masks of gaiety
when the disdainful chasten rods leaves us fainting?
When we are trapped in a bubble of dead promises,
when our every prayers are obsolete,
we're told to keep an even beat;
any hint of a bleeding heart means weakness.

Don't wanna see no spring flowers,
rather'd laze in the muted colors of November,
‘cause in its emptiness, my soul can take leave.
Renewed vitality thrushes with summer's lark,
but the colder season offers sympathy's tart,
when the pain is real, why dub it self-pity?

We hide our pouty eyes with dark glasses
in order to please the judging masses,
but, like a ticking bomb, we'll soon explode,
gushes of searing lava, molten
spills on earth's crust, golden;
the ramifications of a heavy load.

Refused to be baptized by April's warmth,
rather'd be stained by November's dried-up hearth,
‘cause it pulses with fugitive riles;
don't offer me August's solemn words
‘til the day you have been burnt,
and maybe, then, in November I'll bury all guiles.

And entertain the idea that in a strange way,
my prayers have been answered.


Burnt (a lament) by Marilyn S. Ferrell

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