I am the souls of the dead
who linger in cemeteries
incapable of finding their way
to other realms
loathe to leave their hollowed out corpses
left to rot in Sunday finery
I am the leaves
falling from the trees
crushed beneath your feet without a second thought
I am nothing to you
you do not gather me
and save me
you allow me to float on the breeze
hither and yon
coming to rest under long dead peony bushes
I sing songs
and recite poetry of a season
which passes too quickly
but you do not stop to listen
for you are preoccupied
with thoughts of flowers your mind deems more beautiful than me
I can still see you there
reclined on the rug
in my empty rental house
was that the 100th time I knew I loved you
I know it wasn’t the first
as that was many years before
if I was honest
I think I loved you the first time I met you
how does that happen
I don’t know
but now you’re long gone
left in anger
still I recall the feel of your hands
the smell of the outdoors locked in the weave of your clothes
and my mind
will continue torturing me with the details of you
until I die
and on into my next lifetime
Still histrionic, still a bookwhore; just faking competence because of my kid.
i've choked on my words for far too long
It's not the length of life, but the depth.
A great WordPress.com site
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Inky blackness, a yawning void ~
oh what's the point.
"Eye Fly High"
A weekly series edited by Jena Schwartz
My business is generally pleasurable.
Read. Ingest the words. Like little blue pills, they will affect you.
the stories behind the pictures, and vice versa
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FOR DISCERNING READERS
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a little bit of this and a little bit of that
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The home of Emma O'Brien