Pain Like a Lover

The abyss calls forth her song
of seduction—luring the wary and unsuspecting
as they fall headlong into her depths. Sweeter
than a siren’s song, the edge beckons softly
with the crook of a finger and a come-hither
smile. Unable to resist, they succumb
one by one. Toy soldiers heading into battle
armed with plastic for bullets. The rare one
makes his way out of the darkness—broken,
bleeding, but with light like fire in his eyes.
Talking about cracks that let the light in and
pain that is healing.

Author: ebonyandcrows

Hello and welcome to my page~ My name is Larisa--a very common Slavic name that was either derived from the Latin word hilaris, meaning "cheerful," or from the Greek city of Larissa, meaning "strong fortress." Born in Ukraine, I emigrated with my family to America when I was still a small child and now make my home in the beautiful Pacific Northwest. Growing up immersed in two vastly differing cultures led me to have a burning curiosity about people all over the world. Stemming from said curiosity, I have fallen in love with traveling to other countries, meeting new people and delving into their culture, exploring new cities, and of course, dining on the local cuisine! If I cannot escape into a different country, then my next favorite method of adventure is to lose myself in a spectacular book. I enjoy books of all genres--from fiction and novels, to biographies and ethnographies. As long as it captures my fancy and holds me spellbound the entire time, I will burn through the book like a forest fire! Because of this penchant for reading and travel, coupled with my love of deep and mysterious things, I have been often called a dreamer and I find the title suits me. With that being said, I invite you to stay a while, perhaps make yourself a cup of tea and linger through my posts and feel free to comment or share a thought :-)

25 thoughts on “Pain Like a Lover”

  1. Talking to an ‘old friend’ about a week ago, I referenced Leonard Cohen’s well-enough-known-to-have-become-flirtatious-with-cliché cracks-and-light quote…almost as if it were some kind of cozy blanket. I think I regretted it even as it fell limply from my lips…

    Reading it here, beneath the lens of your quite different context, I cringed. All over again. Not for your words, but mine.

    Yours is one of my best finds as a reader in quite a while. Refreshingly engaging. Thank you for giving me a handful of crumbs for my otherwise starving desire for beautiful words…

    Lovely writing.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Wow, I am so flattered to read that! Please accept my most humble gratitude for your comments and appreciation of my blog. Sometimes I will write something, and then reread it and over analyze it to the point that I hate it, so it’s lovely to hear feedback from others. I look forward to looking through your posts a little later when I have time after work 💕

      Liked by 1 person

      1. I tend to be the same, my lady; however, letting go seems to be a lesson life wants me to learn these past few years…and I’m getting there. I’ve spent the better part of this year, in fact, in a somewhat uninspired place. Blame it on the hustle of day-to-day, professional obligations or the single-dad-with-kids dilemma, I don’t know. Up until this month, I’ve written very little (as evidenced by my very weak months-long post record). But I’m a Scorpio…so, in a way, I’m returning home, spiritually and emotionally, this time of year. Perhaps this is partly to praise for my reawakening on paper. Or perhaps that’s some bullshit that fits neatly in a frame? What I have decided, though, is that it’s okay to fall silent for a spell, to withdraw and recenter, and to fall short of the bar hung by the reflection of my chiefest critic. Okay in the sense that poets, in general, reach to write for the heart-health of one person before all others: ourselves. It’s truly what drives us, what heals us, and what makes beautiful again the trappings of all that goes in to who we are and what we have to say, even as those self-truths might hurt and oxidize us. So we write; we spill it; we whisper-scream it from within a cagey introspection. We just owe the process a little care and forgiveness…or we risk missing perhaps the most significant facet of what would make what we put down beautiful, brave and worth giving away in the first place: that we are ultimately imperfect.

        Embracing that has been a challenge for me personally, and searching it out has been a big reason for my relative quietude this year. I say all that to say: your worries and over-analyzations, although ambitious and well-meaning, are likely misplaced. Because, from what I’ve briefly read of you thus far, Larisa, I arrived thirsty and clicked away sated…

        And that’s extraordinarily rare. I might have the thirstiest heart I’ve ever met. So, please…continue to write.

        Liked by 1 person

        1. You give me such deep praise, I am humbled by it. I have fallen silent for a “spell” of years, so I know this path intimately. Ironically, falling short of the bar hung by the reflection of our chiefest critic can make what we write all the more intriguing. It frees us from having to confine ourself into certain parameters and subsequently, the poetry is free to take the shape it wants. As for critics, I have some brutal self-truths written down in my journal, I scarce can go back and read them. But I keep them there as a monument to what I’ve had to undertake.

          Liked by 1 person

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