there is a pang
when consciousness
comes calling
magnetic forces
disrupt the atmosphere
and dormant thoughts return
as torment ripples
throughout my being
with the ominous silence
of imminent shockwave
bearing the gravest
consequence of logic defied
tearing me
from the static sepsis
of my heart’s invasion
to answer its unbridled beckon
with blinded reckoning
as i shudder to behold
the untold tale
of my greatest failing
through portals of peridot
long dulled from life’s laments
sodden earth
from sullen stream
once culled from squalor
placed within the bezel
of my breast
and pulled me from this berth
by the undertow’s drag
jilted like sloughed slag
amid a mournful requiem
of shrill remorse
Max, or Not 
brought tears to my eyes Max. Painfully lovely my friend
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In writing poetry, we see ourselves more clearly. Max, you have a unique talent for simultaneously observing yourself and being observed. Nicely done. :)
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It’s hard to read, so sweepingly beautiful and yet ripped through with an electricity of pain. I heard once that poetry is about the complexities of emotion, more than any other art form.
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Sensual. ❤
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Speechless! Being so harsh is tough. Amen!
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I agree with Christine…it’s hard to read you being so hard on yourself!
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Such melancholy and self-recrimination
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