Forges burn, quicken flesh which passes through.
The cooling is the greater pain, those who
have lost it seek heat, a return
to some hint of passions burn.
Light matches which stutter, wink, fade.
Rub sticks which crack, rip hands, disappoint.
Their eyes frost over,
Lips grow numb –
For nothing warm will ever come.
They are wrapped in shawls, rocked in blankets.
Eyes fix backwards, then blink, then dip.
Resigned to hours as the waking dead –
Counting down the hours, freed upon the minute most men dread.
Writer Moe 
Awesome!
Thanks. Wanted to key off of Dickinson’s After Great Pain, seemed to fit the mood and theme, and to give the piece some additional depth.
I read all poems in a vacuum, so they’re islands of pain in an ocean of calm.
Not a bad approach…
I say other things, though, that I haven’t said to anyone.
Thank you, as always.
This is wonderful. I love it! ~Jen
Thanks. How does it read to you – what is your interpretation?
To me, I take it as expectations of a certain emotional kind that did not get met. Like when a heart gets lost in the excitement of something new, but then, in time, admits it just wasn’t as it seemed, as hoped for. …that’s what I felt when I read it..
Interesting. I love hearing how these read, to others. It’s always a fascinating surprise. I’d hate to write anything that was blatant, if that makes sense. Thanks for this.
And I love to read things that make me think. A good writer does that.. here, you chose brilliant& beautiful words to tell us a story but.. let us feel sosomething too. Its so great! I’m looking forward to reading more! Come visit me sometime! ~jen
I did – interesting story, and I like your voice. I’ll dig in deeper, look forward to more.
Why thank you! Happy & honored to have you stop by Tryst! ~J
I like this!! Very much so! Great job!! 🙂
Thanks Estella.