We are wrapped in thunder waving to ends,
crashing into its own echo, and using shapes
of life to form images. We are the home,
standing them up like bookends against
the other side of walls and doors. The cloth
between threads and needles. Wearing
and worn.
Fitting can be tricky when trying to tuck years
of body in them of curves and loops with an easy
way out. Happiness is looking, turning faces
into objects and bodies into problems
until we match inside a box with a bay window.
We are favorite cliches reused into frustration,
undressed from the bows and knots
to decisions like thrown excuses into situations
already burdened with finished arguments in plain
rounded thoughts always adding and spinning.
We love in issues and we see in existing
because truth is solid when we want to feel
into the sound of their voice or believe in
going through second guessing to stubborn
boards and nails rebuilding after neglect.
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.)
