We are the woods; always losing people.
Making up normal with muddy tracks to
lose and have miles with years for both.
And this:
Waking up to grief's drunk mumbling.
With the kind of looseness you'd find
at a 3 in the morning knock needing
a connection. We are always dots
drawing lines for a picture out of
habit to cheat closeness by throwing
distance into purpose creating nothing
out of something, but it's easy. Sober is
hard, Heaven harder when there is no
distance, only reasons to drag our feet
through. Ruining them with excuses of
why we can't just be changed and
change because we lose, and we have
years with miles to be anything but
normal. We are groomed for endings
not all at once or suddenness slowly,
by keeping or looking until we disappear.
YOU ARE READING
dirt & human
PoetryThis collection has the dirt for my grave and my soul for God but when it rains there's meaning for my muddy heart. (Some of the poems are older and published already, I moved them to this collection, so if you recognize a poem that's why.)
