The soul draws breath – hold – release.
A memory spent. Reflect. Unease
your hand from the hold on your heart in the heat of the moment.
The hand draws out. A photograph.
A memory found, all too hard
is the hold of the hand on the heart in the heat of the moment.
Still is the night, rage is the soul.
Pain is the shape of the hole in my whole.
The heart in the hold of the hand is a fix –
temporary treatment for an infinite mix
of blue and of red, of ice that I bled,
of hell that I cried while wishing the dead
Still is the night and still I cannot.
Neither can X nor Y nor God.
Still is the night, and still must my soul
be still, learn to relinquish the hold.