story
boarding orange, red and yellows to a terminal gray on a Sunday morning
should
I check myself in
to
the sanitarium
the
aquarium of medicated womb
should
I loom inconsequential
back
to potential again
or
should I keep blowing up bridges
as
soon as I cross them
seeing
another thought of tomorrow
tomorrow,
always tomorrow
hearing
me say
let
me borrow something
to
hold onto
let
me sell you my today
as
it is tattered and frayed
and
I am willing to pay
with
the pour of my life
too
many oxygen breathers
demanding birth certificates
amid the pontification
of emptying bank accounts
on
this planet
for me not to cry
seems
we are all sewing seams
looking
for the quick fix
of
rabbit holes
and
the magic of lies
in
the mirror
as
I am left wandering
I
am wondering
why
every low feels
like
it belongs
in
the comfort of a tomb
a
peaceful cold Sunday
unfurls
heavy dew
and
the tide chorus of Winter
abandons
water
in
the slide against the roofs
so
while I am aloof enough
to
keep everyone thinking
that
I smile a lot
it
is not real
and
I would rather not
see
the leaves fall again
because
they always remind me
of
bleeding the rusted locks
from
inside myself , whereas
I
am my poems
I
am the maples and oaks
I
am scattered hope
I
am bent desire
I
am a rope of strange fruit
I am the silhouette left
behind
what
used to be easy
and is now tined against
the bare sentinel
of my time in the trees
EJR
©
I love your poetry!!
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