SLOW (a sketchy February)

Nobody told me about all these
the stretching of the sun
the peeling off the night,
the steadiness of a silent morning,
the cold whimpers of a sad moon
the healing of a broken heart
all of these are in the bus of slow.

So what do I do waiting on healing?
while my finger tips itch to hold onto something.
Where’s a heart as pure as the word?
when the face of pleasure is imbalanced.

Everything about pain comes very slow
it enters like a snail tasting a leaf
as it calls it walking,
the memory of what I became to you
hurts in places your mind cannot grow fingers.

I have lived and done my part well
studied what I’d become and to whom I dwell.
So while these words slowly drag themselves out of this well
know that your feet will take you to where you cannot tell.

Previous Post Next Post

You Might Also Like

No Comments

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.