August 24, 2012

poem 284 of a poem a day for 2012






the sound of torn fabric

I ripped
too many masks off
beloved faces

to explain to myself
that I still believed
in the dark

I can smell
every part of me
in my raw
anticipation

splayed out
bound to the open
windows where I've wanted
to leap from

into another seed husk
set of wings
those quiet bent
retreats from the spotlight

that come
when I discover
the phantom
of every opera

is in the mirror
watching me
get nearer

the truth
that claws
time into
an open
wound

EJR (c)

*first line prompt by Diana Matisz

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