The Rider |
Crushed gourd in a patch
of thorns, rots.
…it’s the phase of decay.
Camped out at the crevice edge of myself among fearscape shadows I pound stone into cold, statuesque forms while the manifest comforts like a ghost that never cared.
There’s inspiration frozen in an iced-blue coma, trapped like an animal.
Sun diffuses like concentration. I think I’ll sleep today.
Nothing to do. No one to see. I wait for the garbage truck.
Need pricks like needles protuding inside out. Irritates like a single grain of sand lodged in the sole of my shoe.
If I pay attention, though, it can sound like a whisper, calling...
So I round up energy like horses and listen more...
And I become a rider on a power that carries me away from the ancient dream of this drowning self… |
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