Wednesday, March 2, 2011


I am the brooding wind
that rages obstinately
at a stained glass window,
using all my might to
fracture, disfigure, deform
anything that is beautiful.

I am the shallow current
that flows swiftly over ankles,
an inviting path across the river
that submerges those enticed
in waters just deep enough
to drown the incautious.

I am the fake, silk roses
stolen from a grave,
recycled for a valentine
given to someone
not worthy of something organic
or the cost of its life.

I was brokenhearted,
a tempest on the sea,
an internal, scathing
mix of fear and hatred
and pity and self-loathing.

Now my hands are folded,
my face is serene,
my body placid
and my neck flaccid.
I have become stagnation.
I am resignation.

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