Even now, on the quivering edge
of winter solstice, the nights
are not dark enough to shroud
or obscure his mania of picking
at scabs of every promise unkept.
Even now, when the most muted moonlight
irk with its ludicrous sparkle
of a hope he prefers to stay buried
in the ash of every poem unwritten.
Moonlight by Edvard Munch
Joining very late to Magaly’s prompt at toads where we use lines from Kerry’s poems to write our own. This close to winter solstice “the nights are not dark enough” seems to fit.
—
December 15, 2019
Björn Rudbergs writings 
Picking at scabs. Yep!
Wow! Really powerful. I especially liked “scabs of every promise unkept”.
scab picking could be counted as wallowing … some prefer that 😦
There are very few things that can obscure that compulsion, especially depending on one’s frame of mind. The winter night can only do so much.
The shortest day .. longest night, for me a time of reflection, introspection. Scabs and all.
Clever and tight – love the last two lines.
Oh, I have done some of that picking….
“…the quivering edge of winter solstice.” Perfect!
hauntingly good, Bjorn
It’s just so hard not to linger on the things that could’ve been, on the tales that should’ve been told (lived)… even when we know that it’s best to move on. And perhaps, we even do… move on, but the taste of unshared ash is so powerful.
My goodness that closing is stellar! Beautifully haunting ❤️
An all-too-human regret.