Poetry – Page 57 – A (wise) man of two faces

What we have to look forward to

And our summer days
took us from book bondage to
wage slave summer jobs.

The sins of the past,
the blood on my hands,
the blood in my hands –
Who, and what, am I?

Anger’s a black bile
which clings to my throat and taints
each and every word.

My heart strings quiver
at the mere sound of your voice
when I arrive home.

Old scabs fall off
not revealing hard scars
but pale flesh, fragile to the touch.
Healed and healing
and growing stronger still.

I met a woman,
the kind you cannot ever
bring home to Mother.

Your love reaches me
like waves breaking upon a stone –
you wear down my rough edges
until I am smooth.

The night in her eyes
completely obscured all of
the sin on her lips.

Will you search for me
or will you leave me alone
to howl in the dark?

It’s hard to have character
without being a character;
how else can you make a virtue
out of a vice?