the broken door. the empty hallway. the crumbling caravans of dwindling cautions. seldom pistols in frequent conflicts. the tired anthem of sober captains in an army of squandered pawns.
the miles easily kept her. a bit of tissue in the crease of a fist. the years wore her. fragments of when in a frenzy of if. the hours like soldiers. the years a war. she melted. solid to liquid. the soft chemistry of anxious skin.
she drew pictures of the signs. though she knew they'd all been seen before. she kept track of the miles. though the arithmetic of further hadn't mattered for years. she pretended to smile. because it was easier.
it was only yesterday that she knew. or had forgotten. the things she'd always been. paper wings that defied the wind. stone footsteps that vomited gravity. softly beating scars that always found deeper openings in shrinking skin.
the truth is its own paradox. deaf shadows. blind whispers. temporary weapons in a permanent war.
Tuesday
11/10/2015 11:38:00 PM
| Life Poems |