Writing The Confessional Poem

The annunciation of rain entering
our world made the words spoken
in muscle, plucking tendons
like a harp, slightly more palpable.

Amplified by bone, their audible
whispers kept me awake at night.
Being shrouded in pillow never
helped, the noise of the familiar

drilling through layers of cotton.
So I made a cut in an arm and let
the Houdini words escape, watching
them build a shroud in my bedroom.

The leaking sepia of memory stained
the carpet. I crawled and sat under
its open arms, feeling them crackling
my palms. Placing a candle on its body,

I watched insects, those bringers of truth,
come closer. Stars spun around its head.
Like a halo.

Writing The Confessional Poem

Christian Ward

Joined November 2007

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