elise.writer

When an air of melancholy wraps you in a chilled blanket,
drapes itself around you and pierces your skin,
I will finger its stitches, its texture, gently
I will trace the quilted and uneven beauty.

I.
I'll be another cookiecutter body to dictate
in a modern monotone just how flattened is our respect
for another social issue. I'll smile to exhibit green behavior
Cross my hands nicely and clench them till they turn purple

When I'm gone, the clouds will make way,
and I will soar between the leaves of the quaking aspens.

When I'm gone, my story will become a song,
a song that echoes from the little birds, so out of tune that everyone

and I pound my feet along my mother's bare back
each vertebrae a pumpkin spice leaf
a lemon leaf, pound our feet along the lemon drops
sugarcoated, our heels skim the fractals away, dig into the mud

I simply don't understand. What ever happened to make us shatter like this?
Who ever let our nation crumble under its own weight?
America's name holds finesse and grace.
Brings to mind a united nation, strong and bold and swift.

Our grandpa's flannel, red and black will cross
                   and blend in wrinkled smiles, passed
through generations. We've just hobbled
over the peak, and the red leaves march