Deah Caldwell Poetry

We open ourselves—

vast, porous vessels—

in empty embraces

and delectable revels.

It’s an easy fix

to triggering the brain,

lighting it on fire,

dereferencing pain.

It is a patchwork of tethering

with peering holes and fractured fissures,

We fill it with lonely together-ing,

debauchery, and easy pleasures.

The mirror of introspection

is a silent killer—at least in brief.

But, the act of refusing to do so

is an indefinite, lifelong thief,

stealing your very self from you—

authentic, rooted, and profound.

If you cannot stand in silence,

you can never deal in sound.