Persistence in the unforgetting

Sunken deep like forgotten wrecks.
A hate that broods, contorts and flex.
This grudge is old and just like oil.
Black with time, and within me coils.
Staining my soul with its heartless rind.
Unforgotten despite the passage of time.
But time has come to break the bond.
That swirling hole, that stagnant pond.
I will no longer give food to the beast.
It is to the wolves I throw this feast.
A stinking blood drool of unwanted flesh.
Cut from my heart, and so refreshed.
Then wrapped in a tourniquet of letting go.
With hope that in that hole, some love will grow.

22/01/202220/01/2022 by Mark Ryan Categories: animals, oil, painTags: art, blood, feast, flowers, food, forgive, forgiveness, fruit, grduges, grow, growth, grudge, hate, oil, poem, Poetry, rhyming, tiges 5 Comments