Plumbed
There’s a leak in my consciousness
where the heavy flows go,
the bury ‘em and the can’t-
bear-it–
the swirled sediment of this world
(as I take it in.)
Until that gelid effluence, trapped
in the elbow of heart,
swells beyond pool,
and every pipe, full to bursting,
breaks into a fugue of requiem–
Slowly the overflow
is over, the roar absorbed
into a sussurus
of sad here now.
It is just the way it is
for some,
the tune borne,
the one they were born
to whistle.
*************************
A poem for Play It Again, Sam on With Real Toads, hosted by the wonderful Margaret Bednar (with pictures by her talented daughter–this is not one.) The prompt I have used was one about figurative language.
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