I know only
Of empty lungs

And joy
In appearing reclusive

Behind closed doors
Where sickness
Is the light
Which creeps on through

Despite what world
Remains
Beyond walls
As distance needed

From day
Still peeking gently
Through cracks
Like precious breath –

An ecstasy
Deemed unfit
For pleasant men
Who suffer
Through lands outside
My window
Where such poetry
Goes unseen

And burdened not
With grief
Or weight of pain
That lingers
Till sadness
Finds its treasures
Among virtues
Learned by verse,

But only through
Each phrase
Which should capture
Words insistent
On affirming
Time has passage
Within bedrooms
Missing sun

Telling me
I’ll wage
Daily war
Across this margin

Agreeing
Blood holds meaning
Being spilled
From mind and pen

Coughing up
These prayers
Toward forevers
Grown indignant
Inside chambers
Trading whispers
For my heaven
Fallen dark

Begging angels
Bless this page

While muses
Steal their thunder

Fighting madly
For survival
Choosing art
As faithful death

Convinced
God had no chance
At relieving
Such expression
Once believed
A healthy outlet
Now instead
My only gift

Per His staunch
Yet fatal hope
Slaying lines
From welling trauma

Using writing
As my altar
For whatever feelings
Kill.

– J. Pigno