Old Mud

What voice
Could I leave behind
If silence
Is all I seek –
Writing alone
Besides this lamp
Left dark?

Afraid how light
Might bleed
Across these pages
Where spaces
Drained and waiting
Just lay like puddles
Flat –

Each margin
Holding rain
Thick as phrases
Feeling empty
From that storm cloud
Called resistance
To exposure
Of old mud

When my soil
Catches truth
Beneath gray
Yet spilling vapors
Among climates
Better suited
For bad weather
I confess

Is my talent
Speaking best
Still believing
Easy answers
Offer solace
Not redemption
Finding pleasure
Often fades,

Though its demons
May remain
Despite fearing
At the hands
Of God neglected
Amid lines
I keep inside

Like my calling
Toward unknowns
Wedged between
These tired eyelids
Of a book
Whose tattered cover
Houses secrets
Under wear

That no verse
Can hardly share
If the motive
Falls afflicted
To such dimness
Bearing torrents
Without sunshine
On this desk.

– J. Pigno

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