Out of Order

This morning I am mourning

what is lost

that I never missed,

am glad to see the last of,

lucky to lose,

what was shattered

by the blunderbuss of my

triggered fight and

flight before the air is clear.

Sometimes I move too quickly

to the place of understanding,

admiring the silver lining

with a type of inane psychobabble,

a lightworker’s energetic

healing before even stanching

the blood, sterilizing

and careful stitches,

the timely response.

Not even a simple

damn, that hurt  

before seeking someone

to kiss the booboo.

Lost, too, in that futile


to be 


and seen

in all my exquisite pain.

I bring to you these jagged scars

like a box of photographs

I’ll show and tell

before I feed them

to the hungry flames

of this funeral pyre.

Shall I list my tinder

offerings?  Here is love,

a dream, trust,

a child, a chance.

Here what was owed, never paid.

Anger.  A friend,

faith, songs,

so many poems.

They catch and spark

symbolic kindling

to reach the logs

stuck in the dark places

where the lost things smolder

when finally, I bring them

into the necessary heat.

Inspired by Lost, Inane, Timely, Blunderbuss and Exquisite.

Published by

Victoria Stuart

I'm a poet, philosopher and inner seeker. A giver, lover and a healer who studies the heart.

2 thoughts on “Out of Order”

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