I’m jealous of my own
Defeat
At the hands of such
Written fury
Which scares me enough
To fester
That these words
Are a passing phase –

A maelstrom
Not contained
For those times
I beckon thunder
And seize
What random lightning
Can charge
This clouded soul

With fear
There is no chance
For a second rain
Which follows
On winds
Of raw emotion
Which carry
Fleeting thoughts

And enable
Sudden grace
From a God
Whose lies are shelter
Through verbs
I dare not question
Are His gospel
Making sense

During seasons
Barely caught
Between moments
Fleeting quickly
As verses
Catch those glimpses
Of my feelings
Changing fast

Telling truths
Like peering light
Among heavens
Prone to weeping
Their climates
Missing sunshine
Where grey
Is fallen bliss,

Spoken
As their gift
Of unfair
And dreary weather
By a soul
Accessing comfort
In embracing
Darkened skies

When sadness
Is that gift
And uncertainty
His measure
Of the fog
No man can handle
Unless
He tells it straight

So I steal
Each coming mist
And such threat
Of looming madness
Damp
Beyond description
As this hurt
Spills through my pen

Raw
And vaguely wet
With a voice
I cannot master
But seize
For brief expressions
Across verses
Barely read

Conjured
Without choice
As they tell
Of bleakest burdens
Which break
A back less hardened
To fall flat now
On my face

Mocked
For past attempts
At revealing
Something special
Though creation
Hardly matters
Since exposure
Is my curse.

– J. Pigno