When the axe fell
Your severed head was shed
And with the blood letting
Comes the ancestral ocean of pain
A deluge of suffering
Impossible to name
Bourne under the cover of silence
And if as the head is now freed
A terrible symphony plays
Its scales
Like fevered braille
Inside your heart
As you feel the tearing apart
That lay always
Hidden at the base of it
Do you have the courage to gaze
Upon the terrible scene that lays
In broken fragments all around you
As invisible griefs sound their
Sonar waves
Memories and visions
Play a waltz that leads
Deeper and deeper into a maze
Of tragedy
And as the axe comes down
And each severed head falls
Pegasus the winged horse
Flies free
Of the bloody mess
As you see the hidden countenance of God
That has the power to reconcile it all
Reflected deep within
These mirrored ocean pools
Of suffering
We must learn to hear the loudcries of our own childhood selves first, before we are, able to, start healing…
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This poem was one I wrote several years ago..it never got past drafts I am clearing out things as I have over 70 individual pieces if writing in there from over 6 years
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