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.
Peace,
Always outside my reach,
Though I try my best
To grasp fickle joy,
A glimpse of meaning,
Purpose,
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,
Deaf,
Dumb,
Lame.
There is no music,
No melody,
No song,
Only scratching,
Tearing,
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!
