Stewing Storm


I stew, seethe and sorrow. I am a woman.
I love.

There is a yearning. It penetrates the wall of silenced fear.
A slow ache, amorphous yet round all at once.
Closed circle.

I am broken. I was never really fixed.
It’s just that I feel the lack of a whole now.
I age.

No longer I bear the one way pouring.
What goes out must have a coming in.
I am sere.

My mind teases out strands of sense.
They float above my pavement feet.
I waver.

It is time to be honest, let it seep in.
Some people must die and go home.
To free me.

5 Replies to “Stewing Storm”

  1. This knocked me over, the first sentence searing the front of my brain, the rest speaking more than words. Stirs a lot in me.

  2. I mean the first 3 sentences,…. as good as the opening to Moby Dick, similar in a way. Identifying, qualifying the narrator before the coming storm.

  3. From your despairing soul. A brew of anguish and anger, uncertainty and anxiety, fear and desperation. A soul floating ebullient and free emanates a radiance that attracts other souls hoping to be enriched by its brilliance.
    But a despairing soul withers. It turns away from light and lite; it searches for comfort within the corner of the dark box in which it cowers alone and frightened. It pities itself, desperate to release itself from itself.

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