riotheclown

I woke up pure
with anger,
the way a baby's cry is pure,
the way the moon looks when you're lost.

But before I could write it down
the day began to unwind it.
Dream fading as
the cold floor greeted my feet
Recollections
not of the dream
but of having forgotten it before.

The flesh gets hard, the skin puckers to an ugly scar.

I forget to unwrap the anger
to give it air
to let it cry
to see it
and thank it for keeping me alive.

So I do it now, my coffee growing cold as I type, sixty-five and barely a reason to try, but I try.

The moon wanes,
Babies sleep in their mothers arms
Anger dissipates along with pain
scars turn silver
like the edges of forgotten dreams.

I'm not pure. But I'm healing. Late but still alive.