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beth-c-callawayPoems
No, I can’t explain the way it feels. I can point a finger at myself and say This is why. This is how. This is what I’ve done. But I’ve held my breath and kept My thinking tethered to dreams Scattered along the floor like Petals from a wilting rose. who can speak of judgment who knows what I deserve save myself save myself knowing all and forgetting nothing I’ve run from the sounds of my own footfall, desperate and lost, my edges blurred against the grand backdrop, this complex and static stage on which I tiptoe whispering my lines I’ve written words that will never swim across the twin green galaxies for which they were destined. Instead they sink below the sea and soon nothing will remain save myself save myself
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Aug 23, 2010
Aug 23, 2010 at 12:04 PM UTC
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No, I can’t explain the way it feels. I can point a finger at myself and say This is why. This is how. This is what I’ve done. But I’ve held my breath and kept My thinking tethered to dreams Scattered along the floor like Petals from a wilting rose. who can speak of judgment who knows what I deserve save myself save myself knowing all and forgetting nothing I’ve run from the sounds of my own footfall, desperate and lost, my edges blurred against the grand backdrop, this complex and static stage on which I tiptoe whispering my lines I’ve written words that will never swim across the twin green galaxies for which they were destined. Instead they sink below the sea and soon nothing will remain save myself save myself
Written by
beth-c-callaway
American
Aug 23, 2010
Aug 23, 2010 at 12:04 PM UTC
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