NaPM April 17 2015

[bena]

guilty.

---

Outside my Shell





I can't remember April
when it was young and unspoiled
like the pink peonies blossoming.


It remains hand-wrenching nerves
when I step outside,
my palms are bare down to bones.


I pull in wind as if it is fury
and when I close my eyes I try to smell
the Springs of yesterdays


but the rain just torrents memories
articulated by pain


and all I keep thinking is that this may
be the last one


and all I smell is death.