Pangs

I have pangs of sadness
Pangs of regret
Temporary things I cannot forget
Fleeting as sea gulls
Across summer skies
Like islands in the river
That rise then subside

I have pangs like shoulders
I shrug
Pangs like ripples
In an otherwise smooth rug
Pangs I want to iron out
Pangs that will not flatten
That want to shout

There are bitter fruit
That will not ripen
That hang on low branches of my gut
So low they brush the ground
Where weevils turn, worms are found
And the apples turn brown

Pangs like shattered glass in my soul
Like glass slippers I stole
But could not give back
Pangs of a dance
Where my feet were flat
And the music stopped
And when I got off
There were no more pangs
After that