Writer writes, even as
a void sucks up her scrolling words
– fragments, dust spinning motes –
and delivers them to no one. Not One.
Above time's grinding axe,
what she voices needs heard.
Look. Life on a string, dangling.
Thrown out a window, kept cool and icy sharp,
bundles of meaning invent a future that never comes.
Words create matter. These words matter.
She attempts the impossible,
braves storms. Wearing her wool camisole,
delivers words to the back door of your life's fire,
keeps you warm when all your certainties expire.
Without fingers
her gloves dextrous,
she's able to type out a signal.
Still, she lives among heaps of refuse,
violent upheaval, sticky carnage at the carnival's end.
Precious spark she strains to keep afloat.
Do all you can, call up everything in your power
to block, lock it up tight. Who will call your bluff?
Who stalls Life? You on the other end of this sentence.
That's it, isn't it? That's all.
YOU ARE READING
Express, baggage and all...
PoetryObjects in the mirror are closer than they appear... Just when you think you've put something behind you for good, you look back and find it trails you like your very own comet's tail, lighting a path through the dark. Reading through these pages...
