Plaster gets put over hurt …
painted with an old brush.
Many times – paint won’t adhere,
concealed behind masses of despair,
a façade you frequently wear.
We plaster it once again trying
wallpaper trimmed with fancy edges.
until it bursts from too much fatigue.
I have tried with my hand outstretched,
a grasp never felt …
I pulled subterfuges away – slowly.
When a sparkle came through,
a fragile dance round a subject.
Bricks and blocks come in handy,
say what you like –
I’ve never listened anyway.
Prepared with paint and plaster
in abundance of fear and suspicion.
Weeping glacial mountains that look like,
orchids in a forest flattened in bark.
Where are the conversations of mine?
Solitude’s encapsulation to erase my dread,
to reveal my words so hidden.
Red Wolf Journal Spring 2014, and a fresh start
2 years ago