It is the haunting of the words,
the disturbed silences of the
aching thoughts like lost souls
searching for “home” and I,
their tortured guide
offering up each and every
time a vein to set the
restlessness of our
deaths free along with this
half light of the living
darkness in me
that whispers through the
heartbeat of dreams
awakens me
heavy with need and this
is how the dead rise
and the poetry bleeds

9/2/2018 Debbie Berk