We are all seekers at the start.    Waking up
in a field of spectral sunflowers.
We are all seers in the end.    Seeds
grown to shatter surfaces.    Eventually,
there are no veils to pierce,
there are no more crumbling walls.
Torment has torn them all down.

Trading with the toll collector.
One habit or crown for another.
Soothing self suffering by the piling on
of others’ pains.    Half moon
releasement.    A session with
the gazing glass.    Dymphna appears,
a blade of blended faith.
Swirls of earthly blues
and greens hypnotizing.    Everything
feels apocryphal when the ground
is so alive underneath.    Just lie back.

I sift through fonts in modern dreaming.
I can’t see any faces I recognize anymore,
only blurred strangers fading
in and out of a sea of words.    They don’t know
they’re drowning.    They don’t see
that the torpid sky
is finally falling,
because their heads
are always bowed.

No one knows to fear
what they can no longer look up to.
A glint can be blinding
if it’s the last thing you see.    The flow
of spirit energy is basic neurology,
but terminology determines who is sane
and who is not.    In this Kingdom,
the Emperor bestows his own
methods of doctoring,
his own misinterpreted treatments
touted in the name of tender love.

If you were able to hear my voice
through your hatred, I’d tell you
that the Word was never
to be wielded as a weapon, but still
I bleed in psalms.    Your unwarranted
wrath was always a warning.    A prelude
to your Acts.    Your blasphemy.
Lips of whips.    Hands of scorpions.
You taught me tainted truths.
I never believed in you, nor in the fate
you tried to seal for me
with a hermetic kiss.


On the eve of the epiphany,                               
3 stars in the east will rain down lightning;
alarms will ring, but it will only be                
a birdsong symphony,                                       
 and then you will find peace.         


I forgive you your punishments
delivered in the name of
patriarchal piety.
I forgive your twisting
of tomes and texts to instill
fear in me.    I forgive
the silent bystanders
battling their own father wraiths.
I learn to forget by polishing
a familiar face in the mirror.
A white lily appears.    A symbol
of death.    Of a new future.    Of
purity.    Of resurrection light.


You can get up whenever you’re ready.
Everything’s alright.                                



© Jennifer Patino (2018)


7 Comments Add yours

  1. I absolutely love this piece. I can’t fully describe how it made me feel. Amazing.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you. I’m glad you enjoy the poem. 😊

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Reblogged this on The Melancholy Spitfire and commented:

    This is an amazing piece. I felt things I can’t describe reading it.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Von Smith says:

    you excel at letting out the darkness. seems that great cynical sadness builds up until it bursts out in prosaic hemorrhages. it seems like the relief from swelling of the brain, injured by trauma. Not expectation as much as familiarity with the flow of a river of pain.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. That’s pretty spot on. I’ve been ill for a decade, & positivity just can’t be an every day thing. I’ll still find good in each bad day, but writing is definitely the best way I’ve found to handle all of my life’s mishaps. We all have our burdens to carry. Mine just happen to be “grossly & enlarged” major organs. There’s beauty in everything to me, even in the darkness. It’s where I often gain the most clarity. Thank you again for reading, & for your kind words. 🙏


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