My pain is a one act play
in my life’s endless stage,
a web of emotions
its setting;
there is no beginning
no end,
none to laugh
and no one to cry.
The props on the stage
are my losing hopes,
and waning desires
riding a rusted cart;
moving along
a barren path,
in lights dim
like my silent pain.
I knew what not to write
but did not know
what I should,
I gave a beginning
to the act,
but do not know
how to give an end.
We all search, ever
Looking for that one
Thing we think we feel
Is missing, an irreplaceable
Loss something that never
Existed yet we never look
Inside ourselves to see
What’s missing before
Deciding if it can
Be replaced.
I recite to a bird with the cortisol level of my bookworm finger
As a loop of a plane lifts like a lid’s sticky picnic licked jam richness
Daily writing task are like poison ivy drooling on my unlaced trainer
Is there irony in a leaf half eaten between hemispherical sculptures?
My momentary surprise deflating slowly like sandy diet cola.
I count down the shuttle of froth with the gravity of a coaster.
I hope the goal in my head does not hide like a marbled mothball.
Ponytails in the sky are smiling behind the roofs of cork rind sun.
Sometimes I shelf ancient books leafed through a tall tree
The wisdom of the tree disguises the branch logging me in
There is a friendly walk into a tunnel’s incubation of trees.
Without the crowds of people nobody’s bar-coded identity reads.
The leaf is as dog-eared as the seven day television listings
With blue opaque smog like the smell of a petrol stations
diesel dripping on the foliage lingering the day’s restlessness
The caterpillars comatose neutral gears ignites a car alarm.