how does a life spread itself thin
elongate to fit holes in existence
stretch itself to the end of a point
and not puncture?
when does a life mar itself
encircle the terms it called once sacred
beleaguer the serif dagger of a word
and enjoy the division?
what makes a thing a thing
clambered-upon, shadows waxing
concealed in the glare of a moonbeam
and a paper-blind sheared?
and where do our points converge?
and where do our ghosts merge?
arbiters would say in the darkness or in the haze.
I would tell them: everywhere but.














Comments
--
If you want to be fortunate in life, connect it to a goal, not a person or object.
Previous PageNext Page