From the Inside
Filled with flames,
daggers, knifes, and swords.
Not warm flames,
not soft, welcoming light -
but, what is light?
uncomfortable, and erratic.
Those around me, feel
what matters - life soon
shuts another door.
Cold - Bitter long ago -
Isolating faces, cruel,
not vanishing by light.
Dreams possess a
wall bruised from the
inside.
I want to fly…
Lessons never learned.
Mother died, tomorrow -
years ago.
Stayed by her
wiping blood
dripping off her chin
down her neck,
no way - mother talked,
not then.
Flames and daggers of
night, arrive in an instant,
a radiance of natural
light from death, unlearned
from the inside.
Nancy Duci Denofio
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