POEMS

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  • Sixteen Bars a Day

    Fingertips touching all others 

    Eyes focused on thin air 

    Tick tock, tick tock, tick.Tock

    Breathe. Pause. Check pulse. 

    This silence, struggling with the weight of 

    Voices, of myriad frequencies

    Yet, I wait –

     

    Counting the countlessness of self-delusion 

    Seeking a hand to wrench me from the cage of time

    I walk with head turned to the back: First, to watch my back.  

    Then, to relish a stockpile of "good old days" 

    When the hangman was identifiable, even to the blind

    It's a new day, and already, it is barren of resolve 

    The road stretches interminably, along with the bodies it carries,

    tearing them in pieces, and scattered across fields, deserts, oceans

    No end in sight. 

    This silence is violence, 

    forged in the crucibles of marginalized, discarded, forgettable souls

    Wherein they are melted into a big lump of hot metal from which swords, guns, and bombs are made — sold, resold, re-melted. Recycled

     

    Fingertips touching all others

    For signs of life in numbness, and a constant battle between 

    Cold and warm, as earth sheds its skin, layers after layers —

    Along with her futures. 

    To live is to live now

    To live is to break the siege of time. 

    Pause. Breathe. Check pulse.