I spent months
setting them up
those emotional "dominoes"
black rectangles on end
balanced just so
white spots spelling out
ego
emotions
soul
just a sharp stroke
of a tongue
on one corner
and
they fall...
and fall...
and fall...
they lay
scattered
and
chaotic
on their backs
like beetles
unable to turn
their undersides exposed
and vulnerable
how many times
can they be realigned
how many times
before the spots erode
how many times
before it's empty inside
like dead beetles'
dry, brittle shells?
An older poem I came across.