Wednesday, September 15, 2010



A pile formed in a corner,
there it was before you.
It was left, and it was not gorgeous,
it still is.
You are not.
The remains of my thoughts
heap up and become furniture for the dust
to rest its weary bones.
Why couldn't I become a rocking chair instead,
to ease your cries and random plays?
My baby has gone.
I eek out in slumber,
and feel for fleshy, soft futures
so quietly stripped.
Morning arrives, as it has for years,
only now, hope is not its companion.
I weep for their separation,
and prosper in the lines
drawn between wishes and doubt.
Smudged out by the back of my hand,
traded for the charcoal's solid voice,
A line, made so deliberately,
Lost too easily.
My hands hold the back of my neck,
trying to force a truth.
One I can't make on paper.
One I can't find in words.
A truth taken.
A perfect line.

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