Daffodils In Broken Skin

Today I'm sheathed in hot regret and pain
As not an end will meet the way it should
The mirror births an image of disdain
And shimmers where a solid man had stood

~ I crack the glass and snap the mast
That's made from rotting wood ~

How can I pray or even start to think
That when at last I die, the clouds will part?
Has heaven really blinked a timely blink
And missed my life but saw the virgin start?

~ I tear the page from whence I prayed
And take my place apart ~

I scandalised the righteous blood that flowed -
For then my heart would pump a vintage rouge -
So where it ran with verse, it runs with prose
And now resembles sewage, gunk and ooze

~ I break the skin, and thus begin
A purge of what I grew ~

--

Ben Pickard 2019