branches stretch to black
veins across the sky’s blue
skin; I can’t hear the beat
of this word without consequence,
a hidden piece of me shrinking –
knowing there were things
sex & singing couldn’t smooth
away, things pints of beer
wouldn’t wash off, no matter
how many hours passed our way.
maybe it doesn’t exist, a dream
like the words you recycled
for me, maybe it’s a distant
old thing, like stars. redemption.
let it roll & bump off your tongue.
This was a prompt I noted down last year – the word ‘redemption’. What a loaded word. Ancient history, though, when I was younger and dumber.