The Last Flower

 

His hands descend,
smack against the skin
like fingerprints of pain.
The night sash of hatred
and the pockets of his vest
hide an army of madness.
No starry parlor is in his eyes.
No moon hangs in his sky.
He has no love,
and his hands flash
a black eye across the face
in moments of non compos mentis.
Thunderwords slay
my silent esteem
until I am nothing.
I crouch in the corner,
driven there by terror -
my only defiance
since I have no fists
to defend against his own.
Inchoate feelings of love
and muddled mayhem
slowly rise to the surface.
Still, I shrink away,
fearful of being alone.
The hands of time stop
as the lock of his elbow
crushes my windpipe.
Then, he tosses me aside
to sit in the mire
of his laughing eyes.
I shiver without crying,
as no tears are left me,
pounded into the dirt,
waiting yet.
The tap of his fingers
is like a hammer to my skull;
but I must find a way
to bridge the gap of madness,
to come to my senses.
His teethmarks upon my flesh
chatter of life, not death.
I am like Shiva - all arms -
as I fight back against him.
I have my own map of hell
and fight to find my way out.
Determination siphons anger
from the contours of my fear.
I halt on the chasm's brink,
looking over and staring
hate directly in the face.
I see him for what he is.
Water becomes wine
as I summon up the courage
to break free.
This transformation hides,
and something stays the same.
Yet, everything is changing.
I visit the old city of myself,
folding back the edges of
old letters where I once signed my name -
the name I was once so proud of.
The sorrow is that I am a waking vine,
dragged through the mud of his hate;
and yet, I am a microcosmic tide of strength.
Love never beat the morning as she opened her eyes,
and the sundry drops of rain never replaced my tears.
In between the shade and the soul,
there blossoms a light hidden by its own petals.
Love never closed her eyes in my dream;
and though she retreated into her shell,
Love never lost the last flower.
It was there - inside - moving towards discovery.

Reviews

[Dinesh Sairam]

OK, If you don't mind, I'm gonna quote a series of stanzas and comment on them.

"The night sash of hatred
and the pockets of his vest
hide an army of madness."

Only the 'Pockets of his vest' wasn't 'poetic' enough here. The other felt just like Linda Marie :)

"Then, he tosses me aside
to sit in the mire
of his laughing eyes."

The lines before this, explaining the fight, weren't colorful like this ending.

Right from here until 'Water becomes wine', nothing is so good so I'd quote it. So,

"I visit the old city of myself,
folding back the edges of
old letters where I once signed my name"

Got me nostalgic. Same things often happen to many people. After all, life is no poetry so we can add our own verses and construct our favorite meters. It flows like a free verse, untamed and subtle.

"Love never lost the last flower.
It was there - inside - moving towards discovery."

I loved the repetition in the first line and the personification in the second.

But, I have to say, this is the poem in which I dislike more (In percentage) lines. Maybe I'd say this is 'another good poem' and not one I would read again and again (As I would normally, if this were like your other works).

Keep writing.

[Abdul Aziz]

This was intriguing. Really different. I wonder what moved you to write this. When all your writes are penned with cheerful optimism, this has a decidedly dark tone, though undone by the conclusion. The form, though not visible, was present like vertebrae supporting the spinal cord. The short sentences with breaks, as I read them, gained speed and became almost breathless. Till the length of the lines slowly enlarges, and the poem becomes optimistic, and more "poetic", and it culimnates in the perfect ending.
You never cease to amaze me, ma'm!

[Cristal Bridges]

For some reason I like to put quotes or examples of things that poetry reminds me of. . . just something I do. Anyway, while reading this poem the image of Tess of the D"Urbyvilles totally popped into my head. It was like I was reading the love triangle of Alec/Tess/Angel. Tess was such a strong woman in that story and that's what I think you portray here.

It's not weakness but a in the beginning a kind of monotonous routine and then a savage warrior springs to the surcace. No matter how broken we become a new budding flower will always grow in the next spring. Wonderful job!

[NoneOfYourBusiness akaK..]

reading this~ my fingertips alighted on the curve of jaw that was shattered by a man like that years and years ago~engaged~
pulled through to feel a dual dance of terror and pain~
I ADORE the format~ the drops of blood lines descending into the seed still swithin the heart's soil~ I love the vivid cinematic quaity of your descriptives~ they are evocative and fit perfectly into the gorgeous flare of pain etched into the body of this poem which is more like the human soulprint made corporeal~

[.]

Wow this is wonderful and full of emotion, this is amazing.