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I can be spellbound
and simultaneously free,
yet doubly
wrong.
Does it please you?
This world, I mean.
I revel in the wind,
as if I could bear
the lightness of flight.
Yet, the ground quakes
beneath, as I do,
unpredictability
every time I am called
another,
even in this
secret poem.
YOU ARE READING
Bedtime Prophecies
PoetryPoetic perceptions from a dissociative identity poet. Clearing the wardrobe to find a missing ring; found you instead in my discard pile.
