RE-POSE (A Poem)



Out of the fog,

twirling around;

What happened to the ballroom?

Where are the people

who danced in flowing gowns

With the soft white gloves

that rode up their arms?

Vines overshadow marble walls

while frogs flop unceremoniously,

Into old green fountains,

Perched on the heads of rigoured dancing ladies

Stuck in the same uncomfortable looking grace

Since before they were made.

Perched pitchers long gone dry,

With nothing left to give.

Shards of sunlight

dance on the crown of my head

As though the sky is made of water.

This must be the difference between alive

and dead.

Outside, crickets sing an evening song,

I gather my senses to find others

who have since gone far and long,

right or wrong.

Alive now in the places

Where silver streaks the sky

and children are instructed

not to cry.

Even as the ground beneath my feet

shifts to become

something else in this new season.

I find my comfort within the confines

of my own skin,

rolling in oily memories

sick with tears

Sludging feet in slick wet mud

naked to everything but God,

Always reaching

for the perfect pose,

Never achieving

But the heart must not close.
















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