the iron cast has made me weaker.
i can not move a muscle until the wind breaks my skin-
and i learn who i am.
the promise of a new glaze inspires me. maybe the fire will make me bronze or golden.
or maybe i'm a prettier metal underneath this cast,
maybe i glow under the moon.
either way i am practicing patience. i am so desperate to be seen and to be admired,
but my timing has to be right.
i have to regain my strength,
until the pulse i carry matches the tune i hum under the moon's glow.
they will know who i am-
i do not have to prove such.
they will know who i am when the water licks the land,
and the sand beneath them shifts ever so slightly.
they will be moved by my kindness,
and then the moon will reflect off my skin-
and then they will know.
YOU ARE READING
speak softly
Poetryyou speak until your breath gives out, and the shallow huffs of words they never heard beg to be buried; but live on in the sidewalks. - - - prose/poetry
