Bleeding-out the heart like xylem sap,
oozing from the bark of autumn trees;
inertia, negotiating crooked grooves,
in depressed, sardonic spiral;
descending to the taste of november soil,
cold, dark, and bitter, as sorrow be.
We bleed in darkest indigo,
thru' the rivers of narrowed veins,
and arteries...streams of purple blue-
the wounded heart in passion;
'less the wound breaks flesh to open air;
turning indigo into blackest red.
Holding-cell for the human heart be
harbouring dread in like tachycardia;
warm pulse cradling, its iced lament,
until faith provides remission.
And sorrow then be a lifeforce....fervent,
as the swelling buds of Aprils verdant fields.
©Frank James Ryan, Jr./ FjR
MMXVI-All Rights Reserved
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
cold, dark, and bitter, as sorrow be Yet the color Indigo lets me to revive Splendid nature's shade on my blue Spell bound my mood of rejuvenation Time and again, yearn for that pinch of indigo To learn through shadows and reconstitution. After long long time, just happened to visit this site And you are there in posts within 24 hours :) Delighted to read and note that your focus is same! The 'Indigo' ever part of soul, can't let it go...