Poetry I found lodged in my desk drawer.

No idea when it was written, but i can venture a guess. I liked it, so here it is:

After The Guillotine

The wind picked up and the blade came down,
Down with the speed that robs your breath
Ripping cleanly through the life, the love
That filled my weary flesh and bones

With the gasp of truth comes pain,
But also, a relief
To know that not all is lost.
That cry of “I was right” echoing weakly in what’s left
Causes me to raise my hands to the heavens.

So the stitching starts, over again.
For what’s not in time multiplies nine,
Piercing through the layers of tough skin, stubborn skin,
Wrongs un-righted and flaws admitted,
I stitch the once deemed irreparable rent.

As I stitch, symphonies rise,
Carrying a hope that claims
That pain makes more color
Once love arrives, when one
Will kiss the imperfect scars.

It’s not about getting on, getting over.
It runs through my veins, holds my head in place.
It is irreversible.
It is a part of me.