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where was the world…
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Last night, I dreamt of an old friend picking up smoking, cigarettes with the look of pencils (because she wanted to be a teacher, you see). I dreamt of people I did not know. Last night, I dreamt, aside from her smoking lead, of a table mired in the middle of nowhere, all of us seated:
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Observe. Spit in his face, and he turns the other cheek. This man who is not even a doormat. A doormat is welcoming, even when stepped on. He is but the puddle you step over: shallow, dirty, unwanted, cold. Once, a part of something greater.
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via Daily Prompt: Witness There he sits on the tower: magnificent, tremendous, clad in strained muscle, clenching his brows. Stone-faced: help- less. Help- less.
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Somewhere, a room falls into sterility. We sit there, blank faces surgical tools minus scrub and garb. Who will make the first cut? Who can? Here no-one is the most qualified. And so, we wander without walking. I catch the butterfly, wing-eyes fluttering open and shut cases. You check your chapbook for ever-creasing lines. We
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words that I don’t swallow come out as warbled waves that leave nary a ripple on conscience or memory. words, that leave no mark on the banks, far-flung islands. but here in my clenched-fist prayer I know that someone has seen it regardless. perhaps a fisherman? a kid skipping stones across the surface or the
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Unwilling survivors, we strain these waters for warmth. Suspended in sea-salt and brine, preserve this moment – the lines between blue, brown and bright; driven splinters into submerged shoulders. Boards which seem to know all and see all. The scent of silence. Dread treading water. Everywhere but nowhere. Anything but everything. If we rebuilt ourselves
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You once asked why I followed you, kept with you at all. I said I knew it was right. This is how I knew then: weights left my face, my fingers fragile, hushing breaths. I feel you even when you’re not here. Father always told me that there’s a special place in Hell, just for
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End of the queue and start of the process. Threading eye of needle, delicate contortion of self, steel embraces shoulder. Forced myself through it: square block into circle; all to find a home and throw myself into it. The wave breaks the shore, the man emulates the wave. Wave breaks shore into grain; man breaks
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Trepidation creeps on the spine, a tightrope act. We are both audience and whipped animal. Who will hold my hand? Hopefully myself. Every day I see is its own dying breath. This is the future we walk towards, a destination we cannot afford, a world of our own choosing but not of our making. This
ugly stage 