you hid your growth for so long
shimmying on childhood’s holy ground
no proof of lost boyhood showing
now with cloth of smoke you shroud your youth
truth folds within you, hiding in your lost soul
your surly thoughts poison your mind
now, forging unborn horror, you go
down low, down into thick, sticky mud-slick dirt
if I could find within your blind-fold mind
your pot of gold, willingly I would burnish it
I would throw your surly untruths, told to you by fools
into oblivion to rot; to blot out your hurt.
Written in March 2015 – an exercise in constraint: limiting myself to three vowels.
© Jane Paterson Basil