Phil Wickham When My Heart is Torn Asunder

Monday, September 28, 2009

Quiet I Wait

Fury simmers at a low boil
Waiting only for the recoil
As the lid they lift
And it blows--as they sniffed--
Into the face of the onlooker--
My pressure cooker.
My eyes stare cold like ice.
Cold tomato-red slices:
Blood is there,
Bubbling up as it greets the air.
For now the secret is hiding
As I wait and Time is biding
My Mind is taut; thought brims
To my frozen face, rigid limbs
With too great a misery
To move. My arms blistery,
Rage waits, quieted by new scores
With a blade as sharp and friendly
As an inciteful paramour




all rights are held by
Cynthia Lott Vogel

06-20-09
Any Reproduction in any form is forbidden without the expressed consent of the author
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