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
2 years ago