A poem about life’s pathways
How do I fill my story.
How do I know which is the right one.
Which trail is the one I was meant to take.
Which face do I end up with?
My jelly like brain
With those spots white
( so important, the white )
Which one do I spot
I know I have choice
and I have used it.
chose well and Did Good.
And I’m safe. In houses.
To have danger means
To see what is fragile.
Ensures it is safe.
The chapters are balanced.
We put them in place.o
But then the compression waves start to roar in my ears,
and I can’t hear a word that was said.
I am the same story though.
The words are writ now.
The paragraphs marked and indented.
But as I think hard and I try to remember
how I had my version…
the words are all swimming.
Grammatical crackers in my soup.
And the thin air and ghost in my life :
the one who hung on for dear life
and looked into my soul and saw just a snack
but told me it was all you could eat.
The ghost hangs smoke and pale.
I see the pot drop petals all red
and know that I won as an alternate.
A tourniquet staunching times’ flow.
Because I know
that you were empty and keening
and I was turned inside with pain.
But then we locked and safe again we turned together.
And was our joint story supposed to twist?
I would think so.
And I do.
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