A pocket full of indigo

There are four and twenty ways to cry. I know them like I know my own skin. Still, this thinking, it scratches me awake. Softness has a way of seeking out the weak places, the fault lines. The errands of departure. What would life be without the loss of it? A platitude, nothing more. And so I take a hammer to the nails of my mind and beat the song back to melody. Colours to white. Glass to sand. Blood to iron. The carcass of it dragged helpless while I break the rocks of absent dreaming. There are four and twenty ways to cry, but for all my tears, I can find only one way to love.

© Jac Forsyth 2017