There is so much
Left in this pen
That my heart
Can’t find
Any ink
But the blood
Which keeps
Pouring crimson
Through agonies
Written instead –

An unsure word
Here and there
From a childhood
Dream
Still dependent
On fading thrills
Growing weaker
That fear
Itself
Can’t sustain

When facing age
Bearing down
Through movement
Strained
Needing substance
Like wisdom
Holding no meaning
But passion
Of martyrdom
Passed –

How pain itself
Doesn’t last
But holds
Some truth
Feeling ruined
When nasty as death
Running rampant
Amid poetry
Lost
Between laughs

Across finite rows
Trauma yields
To grow up
Tall
Among grasses
Once nourished
By throwaway phrases
Clouds
Make strong
Spilling rain

If speaking hearts
Should demand
Giving everything
Up
Seeking nonsense
Then purging hurt
Altogether
Pushing phrases
These days
Will allow.

• J. Pigno