Saturday, April 2, 2016

It's Poetry Month -- "Fleeting"

The risk you take is looking back and 
the pain in the core of the chest striking you 
so softly 
that it rips every vein apart. 
Grasping at every image with a child’s hands, 
every cell a small dimension that will live and die
And yet still managing to smile, you 
pick yourself up, 
the night managing to drag on
Your hand, 
now seven years later, 
all cells replaced, and 
none remain that your past has touched
This is when the years become weeks, 
and days turn to particles, 
such a convenience for the human mind--
Compiling and organizing, 
squashing everything together like the machines 
crush piles and piles of trash into small boxes  
Trying to remember that one moment and 
the frustration wildly aflame, 
and that question:

Then what was the point?


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