I lay them in a mandala, the shards of glass
I pull from my back, one by one. I let them
scar over, and I surround the mandala
in peonies, because the pain was not for nothing
and now that I can watch it from afar, my
pointer-finger-thumb camera brand new,
maybe I can capture something beautiful of it. Flash
on.
every twist of inadequacy's blade
(each one worse than the previous)
fell in a rhythmic order, one that your silence
carried in. did you hate me?
you'd never say so. so blindly, i never changed.
sunday nights are my own.
old music in the corners of my mind
pen scratches on paper, ten thousand poems
two hundred and seventy-two
little golden lights, 4 walls
that mirror my soul.
At the hurl of a storm, the tree collapses.
Stagnant from then on, broken. Such an easy thing to be.
In the unpredicted wind, it sways
back and forth on its trunk, tendons straining
Comments
This is so cool I have such a vivid image of what your describing
thank you!
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