I lie in wait, flesh exposed.
Skin, once thick and protective, cracked wide open.
Tendons untied, their loose ends scattered.
Muscles, with nothing to pull, fatty and flaccid.
Bones desiccated, hollow and fragile.
I lie in wait, silently praying to be saved.
To be stapled back together into some approximation of myself.
Maybe stronger, with tough scars to hold me together.
Or to be taken away from this physical world altogether.
Into the soil and perhaps onto whatever’s next.
I lie in wait, waiting for answers.
Are you ready, “I ask”.
There is no answer.
There is never an answer.
I guess silence is the answer.
I lie in wait, for my will to return.
To pick up the needle and thread.
To suture my body and soul.
With tight sailor knots.
And the strength to carry on.
Perhaps I will.
Be well,
Monty

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They say the bone that is broken, when mended will be stronger in that spot than an unbroken bone. I hope your “brokenness” is mended and that strength returns soon…
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An arresting image, Monty. And a provocative poem. Peace to your heart and soul.
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The more I think about it, this is also (or could be) a concerning poem. I don’t want to make assumptions, but if this is how you feel (rather than the poem being the thoughts of a poetic narrator), and you need extra help to keep going, please seek it out, Monty. I care about you, and others do too.
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Thanks for speaking up. Writing is a form of therapy for me, but I also have the care of professionals as well. Sincerely thank you 🙏
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So glad to hear it, Monty. Take good care.
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