is a circle.
The
minefield of
breathing.

I inhale.

The rasp of a door

hinge.

Gone to rust.

Pieces of
time.

Jigged thoughts…

clang of
chains.

Soggy Days.

Lie wet
leaves.

Rain..

The air pushed.

Behind me a
young woman

falls.


Caroline Shank
9.24.22

Churches love an echo
Like a riot loves a crowd,
The bereaved were doing sombre
But she was doing loud,
The old man was in his coffin
Her lover couldn't make her stop,
In flagrante in the vestry
The wealthy widow was on top.

There's a place,
you and i know,
there's a garden
where we reap knowledge
but there is noting to sow

we cry for wisdom
but god sauntered
we are left questioning pain
the single inquiry
can a deity go insane?

Snow angels
No they don’t fly
It’s painful

Red stains in the snow
From a small pocket knife

I need snow angels in my life

I speak
& dice
roll on
my tongue.

I move
to kiss
you
& my
mouth
is filled
with
sevens,
sevens,
sevens.

wouldn't you want to live every day with substance? or is the only substance you know the one you abuse?

i spent my life trying to please
someone with a twisted disease
i broke myself down
and tucked my feelings away
to become the person
they wanted me to be
i let myself be watched
through the glass of a two sided mirror
of a sociopath
i wallowed my spirit away
and begged for acceptance
but there’s nothing in the world
that i could do
to let the narcissist know
that i am human too

we do not write poetry
we write mirrors
which are held up
to curious faces
who read
looking for their
own reflections