Writing

There’s this song,

Slipping Through My Fingers.

By ABBA. From Mamma Mia!

That's how I see it.

Our rights.

“I try to capture every minute.”

There's a wasteland in my throat,

a desert of ice and snow

frozen over and stealing the sound,

cushioning it in its soft blows

of white cotton clouds.

Shut down the vocality of my vice

I like the pace of time. I think that life tends to move on on just the right cadence, and if I had a Time Machine I would use it to lock time at its current pace.

The erosion of rights towards marginalized groups feels like a personal attack on the values of equality, fairness, and justice that have importance to me.

imagine this:
us, walking barefoot through the wreckage of melted roads
the sun carving epitaphs into a sky too scorched for rain.

They say the world was once wider, 
measured in scraped knees and firefly nights, 
in the space between streetlights, 
where time was counted in the hush before dinner.