I wrote this poem a couple of years ago and applied some edits today. According to my notes on the document (which I’ve deleted) I claimed this to be my favourite poem I’d ever written. As much time has passed, my previous claim is curious since I have designed better pieces throughout my life.
Additionally, the darkness presented in this particular poem feels less relevant to me now. Darkness has followed me all my life, I cannot deny that, but this poem seems to insist that darkness is all I have. I don’t agree with that.
Of course, creative minds would understand that while enthralled in a state of design, be it writing, visual art, etc, we dive deep into a thought or emotion that’s sometimes distant from reality. Final results are often only part truths that we embody as full truths to design the work, express self, and heal pains.
Often, when later reading what I have written in joy, anger, hope, or misery, I feel as though someone else wrote the words and felt the feelings. They are truths only in fleeting moments or during deep emotions that ignore the full picture.
I love that. I love the mystery of self and my ability to hyper focus on an emotion so to create poetry, short stories, visual art, and the many other magical things that arise from myself.
Night Life
A bloodied sigh painted inside the trunk of undry leather;
still alive, tickling
without humour.
Through the branches of air sacs she breathes- rather, she does not breathe; she regurgitates a bloody sigh.
Choking on the consistency in her life.
The only thing that's been true to her side,
like a stalking wolf in the dark night.
Except,
the darkness isn't night- it's life.
Always there.
Even in the brightest of days.
ALWAYS there.
Like the ravishing, lurking, wolf- the night,
the darkness
her life is carelessly devouring itself.
Her very own existence is an intelligent deformation
freakishly presenting as a human figure.
A disease decomposing, mutilating, and eating itself inside
then.. out.
Like kidney stones, this intelligent deformation can appear beautiful and even an elegant lure.
Don't be fooled by its sharp edges which only intend to lacerate inside
then.. out.
This is not a meal fit for the wolf regardless those meatless days creating growl,
A growl, not from lungs (from mechanics of a starving digestive system)
But, the wolf eats.
As it eats it dines on its own flesh.
Ravishing.
For, the wolf is she.
The disease that is her life.
Her very existence.
...
She sighs a bloodied sigh manifesting from cryless tears choked back into her trachea.
Dying inside.
Then.. Out
Regurgitating her soul.
Regurgitating herself.
Thank you for reading my post.
All written content is © 2021 of professional writer, Ana Clark - Ana from Canada.
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**Photo credit **:
Wolf photo by Phillipp Pilz.
Thanks to Philipp Pilz 
https://unsplash.com/photos/QZ2EQuPpQJs