The MOTHER of all TORTURE Even the little moments/ full from yearning/ taste of regret lingering hold patterns of whiny self-importance. The sun cresting the hill on winter's day understands this more than humans care to. Mourning its final minutes/ its bulbous head hanging low/ purging/ raging like the sea/ its mouth dampened a bruise of purple-orange— a sucker punch from the night’s lurking shadow—the sun knows this is not defeat/ only reprieve. I too mourn/ with less beauty and grace/ my days are check-marked bright red/ night’s exhaustion tackles/ quickens the pace of my needs/ desires. The spilling of sand in hourglass grates my inner-ear/ speck by tiny speck/ echoes/ drum-like boulders/ crashing down cliffs. The mother of all torture/ is time wasting away/ on the bones of my existence. © Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Michael Niessl on Unsplash
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