A Wounded Paradise

author's note:

A wounded paradise is still a paradise.


A WOUNDED PARADISE

Maybe I'll make for myself
a black booth--
a sanctuary where
I could confess crimes
I would never ever commit:

wild capers
malicious mischief
rabid fancies--

a devilish release
but with a heavenly purpose:
to bark this growling dog
out of me.

Thus relieved
maybe I could relax
for just a bit...

or maybe not--
I've flared many times before
and afterwards
while sitting in the silent ashes
I have heard the sad pain
hidden behind my cry

and again realized
the truth behind
the fiery cry rising
from our wounded paradise.

We bark...we howl
but no amount
can ever heal the wound--
actually
an eruption too extreme
only seems to tear me more.

Nevertheless, I wonder if
a little private yelp could help
me cool occasionally
when I feel the hackles rising

and afterwards, in the silence
maybe I'd hear again the great pain
that drives the violence of our world

and so, remember
what I must never forget:
I am truly doing some good
for us all
as I work to doctor
this human being
born into
a wounded paradise.

© 2017, Michael R. Patton
My War for Peace: a poetry book