Fear stings
like shards of broken glass,
an assault to calloused flesh,
until it marinates into an almost forgotten state
invisibly sifting through the shadows,
afraid to speak directly to the darkness,
the onyx abyss that throttles and swallows
the ghosts of innocence.
Words lodged in mid-throat,
a palate choked on pâté of burnished memories
that taunt, then haunt,
and play with the mind set in denial,
reset in thoughts repressed.
The oats are milled and wine is chilled,
as we are welcomed into the lair ensnared,
the ambushed caveat is clearly spelled out to beware
that we are both prey and vulture,
consumed and devoured,
hungry, hesitant, reticent, impulsively strong and brave,
though bloodied and scarred by the jagged, broken glass
and the relentless sting of fear.
© Connie Song 2021. All Rights Reserved.
