The dull ache

Behind these eyes,

In this jaw

If only for the sake

Of this disguise,

Face rubbed raw.

Dragging feet

Day by day,

Through brambles,

Broken glass

And sharpened clay.

My soul is weary

And needs rest.


Always outside my reach,

Though I try my best

To grasp fickle joy,

A glimpse of meaning,


Or some kind of sense

In this mess I’ve made

Of who I am,

These paths I’ve laid.


My very foundation,

Rests on trauma and shame,

My muse sits quietly,




There is no music,

No melody,

No song,

Only scratching,


And itching

All day long.

As my eyes close

And I accept my despair,

Silent melancholy reigns,

And it seems only fair.


Nolan’s poetry is available at Blue Cypress Books on Oak Street and Faulkner House Books in the French Quarter.  You can also buy his books here!



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