Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Feb 2014
each morning brings nothing;
this is good. a gift often

in this quiet
i am neither here nor there;
dead, alive;
have never existed, never wanted
made movement whatsoever,
let alone
lifelong mistakes.

until it wakes, makes it move
and as if forgotten
in morning's thoughtless air;
how easily silence, like a ribbon,
slips from fingers, unspoken hope
to the floor.

and all of the everything, giant-high
as the space between blanket-lain bodies
and a starry vast sky,
is louder
than the knife of goodbye,
as fatefully simple
as the universe apart
by paper cut.
Written by
Please log in to view and add comments on poems