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by Tansy Roekaerts


The soundless scream of torturous pain,

The story of which I cannot explain.

Ashamed of my needs, yet I want them met,

Manipulative, deadly, pointless threat.

Blind is the audience, macabre is my dance,

Forced to perform by a body in trance.

Surely, in time I will comprehend

Not by me was my story penned

But a tree that snakes out endless roots

Invading its prey bearing poisonous fruits

All feelings calcify in my veins

My soul slips from righteous reigns

Branches invade my crumbling remains.

I tear at my flesh to uproot the tree,

I can no longer: the tree is me.

We Hope

Her anger roars and shakes the air

And rushes up and down the stair

And floods each nook and hiding place

And grasps each nook in tight embrace

To fling it down again and race

In ever tightening circles of despair.

They did not care should she succumb

Gossiping mouths fallen dumb,

The pain once nurtured every night,

Wings back to her in curving flight,

To pierce the membrane of the tight

Embracing blanket of her rage

The pictures of her on the walls rile

Lies dissimulated by childish smile

She tears them from her heart and brain

And shreds them piecemeal down the drain.

Swallowing all fury is in vain,

Yet from the trenches she rises again,

Reloaded, but appearing comparatively sane.

We hope.



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