Sunday, February 28, 2016


It is what it is, you know --
the days when everyone seems
to love what you do,
and the days when you're invisible;
the sunny mornings, when you ignore
the call of the dappled garden,
claiming you've more important things
to do, and the rainy afternoons
when you sit indoors
and grumble at the puddles on the lawn;
blank canvases and pages
that call out the best and worst
or leave you sitting paralyzed and staring
into the abyss of a well run dry;
the clatter of the blind dog's claws,
waking you to cravings in the middle of the night;
the lilting, eerie song of the refrigerator
echoing in the stillness of the empty sheet beside you;
the faint scent that haunts the pillow you refuse to toss;
remnants of the occupation, scattered in boxes
you can no longer lift
up stairs you can
no longer climb
tell stories you
can no longer

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