Of Internal Ache, Eternal
I speak droplets of confusion’s bane;
Bottled and shaken.
Ataxia turning in churned carbonation,
All the while humming a worn fabrication:
I’m handle and spout to my twin’s acrid tears —
Her sane on the wane in the high ward.
Seared, overgrown gardens of cerebral fears;
Ignoring the internal soothsayer’s sneer…
…A lie, notwithstanding
Let me cry; wring my hands, ‘til their bones turn to dust,
Now I catch long-craved boons in quelling what I must.
Until this uncertainty breaks from its cage,
We shall sip of my seething mistrust.
- Amy Strom