that’s what she said
August 16th, 2010 § 1 Comment
how much longer can i keep this up?
ditch the trappings of tin-can-labels
and fly free, baby bird.
cooped up is no way to live.
next month the cold blows in.
“west,” i always said.
south is now on the radar.
still, i do not move.
stagnating, rotting, getting old.
but what about roots?
are there other routes to take
for acquiring the sensation
of fitting in,
minus the effects of
moss growing over
my mangled bones?
abundantly be,
the core keeps burning
while i travel astrally.
the disconnection with my body
is ever-present.
can’t keep waiting
for the deus ex machina
to push this stone along to a roll.
Advertisement
This is my favourite poem of the last month or so at least. You’re a very talented writer Q. I especially enjoy the part:
“are there other routes to take
for acquiring the sensation
of fitting in,
minus the effects of
moss growing over
my mangled bones?”
A suggestion that to fit in one must stop moving, and let moss settle onto their broken bones… interesting, and accurate. Thanks for sharing!