Burning my atmosphere
with little forms of mischief
poisons and their surrogates
are knocking down my door.
Easing my grip on them
I open up and let them in
take the spill, the mother’s pill
and slip into a free falling.
Cursing my loneliness
with spirits that abhor you
slinking back to silliness
and friendships made in haste.
We are the invalids
the barely thinking thespians
playing coy for all the world
in hopes that they will someday see.
Writing a manifest
of all the tiny thoughts I’ve
stolen, pilfered, robbed from you
and rethought as my own.
Speaking in metaphor
a tattered rug on crystal floor
there is no philosophy,
no knowledge that will set you free.
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Submission Name: Stolen Rhythm
