Friday, April 9, 2010

If I were made of only bone
the only bone after presumptions that die on the vine
the lurching sea of land beneath
my retreat left behind
could these bones be brave and true
and bring the pleasant company of memories in solitary time?
I can't be seen behind my mask
an odd paralysis is all that's visible
to be selfish or uneasy
spinning with what goes on and on
before sweet sanity unfolds

No comments:

Post a Comment