Wednesday, March 9, 2016

the narrator talks to himself

can't I be soft?
no, at best velvet wrapped ‘round cast iron
hard, brittle, and pocked in rust.
perhaps a perky animal print,
but that is it, OR
some pony decoupage,
but not both.

How could you possibly be soft?
When have you had that sort of strength?
When could you admit to yourself
you just might be weak?

an amalgam, mercuric in composition
but hard pressed powder in practice

you shake too much on quiet nights
to let anyone in, much less open up
to the sunshine and sordid shit
of salt-in-wounds human touch

strength smiles and whispers
you throw fists and sit silent

grass grows and blows
away from the wind

stones weigh, sometimes weep,
sometimes crack against
probable cleavage

trees whisper in the wind
trees are not afraid to bloom
trees, above all, will bend

you are a flapping chain snapping links
you are a cage who pretends a beast

a hollow echo of laughing gods

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