I’m not good at sitting in silence
pulling the grey smoke
over my eyes
into my nostrils deep down
into my being
while the world destructs around me.
I’m always twitching
moving here or there
wanting
pushing myself into the reflective
strips of my soul
laughing at
the carbon colored stripes in between
on the pages of my book.
As I open the paper
into the darkened wind
it fills with the taste of my life
instead of theirs.
There is no breath left
to fight the terrors
of loss
of unwanted emancipation
let loose by the hot winds
pushed seaward from the desert.
There is no breath left
to shove away the copper highlights
glowing in my soul
against the blackness
before the rain.
Me: Finished poem……however it is, and condensed 11 pages to four in a fire essay. Pastor fajitas….huge hit.
G: Came home happy again. I love that. What a difference a job makes. Cannot open this page if I use a jig saw.
Duck: Sound asleep. G shook and poked and he didn’t wake.
Fires: The newspaper is filled with accounts of heroism. One column tho highlights a woman who took charge of the elderly and wasn’t who she said she was. Imposter indeed.
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