Time we share in small spaces,
become vast areas of discontent.
Gazes are now glares like death,
sitting on my armchair as the quilted
patterns turn moldy with the years.
Distance is essential frozen in a cave.
Like the fossil of a trilobite squirming,
to be released in the future.
Changing the floral wallpaper into
bricks, piled one by one,
with mortar that sloshes from side
to side when touched by a razor.
Smoothness captures radiance
and sadness and flings it back
in your direction,
Space is wasted on anguish.
Red Wolf Journal Spring 2014, and a fresh start
10 years ago
Posts
I do understand that patterns can turn moldy with the years. Very apt description of a certain kind of relationship. And as far as space being wasted on anguish, sometimes it is best to just let it go. Peace to you, Pamela.
ReplyDeleteMary,
ReplyDeleteThanks and peace to you and yours.
I actually wrote this as a free write, just letting the words come to me as they would.
Pamela
Sometimes it is good to give oneself permission to do just that -- free write whatever comes!
ReplyDeleteThanks Mary.
ReplyDeletePamela