This decade,
This mammoth.
Battered thing that never began and may never
End.
Echoes of some far-off bloodshed acted as a fine soundtrack to my adolescence -
The needle ran in circles, scarring and scratching until the blood broke my brain.
It was a knife-edge,
Balancing act.
The fears of yesteryear were never too slow to squeeze my wrist as I ran
Through the fields, whistling against the bellowing wind,
And I fell to the flowers -
Their pollen pitied me.
Purple petals frowned as I giggled until my stomach
Flipped. Uncertain in this hot-cold climate
Wherein the glare of hope didn't outstay her welcome.
Didn't melt my clay too much before it could harden in our tired sun.
The sculpture built on optimism, reinforced by pessimism.