Stirring the Pot

Sweet, musky scent
that rises the striped
stairs into my nostrils
and opens my eyes
to see a blurred, blue silky
smooth crashing, clutch
from the shoving mob
behind me, into
a forgotten memory, whose
thoughtlessness left
scars on a beaten-up
heart and already crying soul.

In all the heavens above
the twinkling stars that are merely
endless, resemble chances for glimpses
and brushes to open up
Pandora's box, long
ago locked and key thrown
into the vast darkness, expanse
of grey where nothing exists;
not even a glimmer of light.

Rushes the blood in my veins,
swirling birds above my head,
as if the color flashing in the dome
had drugged my confusion of the sudden
surprise gift from Mother Nature.

Twisted and sick, resulting
in absolute blinding pain
where gasps for air
and clogged passages, leave
me breathless and body
aching and inner core cold;
wishing for reversal of
my sudden fortune where
the earth is better left
undisturbed and panic ceases.

It is well past the hour
of midnight, no fare
thee wells can be uttered
to make amends; words
cannot be sought from within
a drought in the famine;
hungers pain scream into the silence
that stills the night and I have
no choice but to stir the pot.

Copyright T.L. Burton


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