the palatable silence is just about
getting to my breaking point
the way trust is broken
like well-intentioned pencils
the silence of one's heart
(one's own) beating into damp sand
saying, "oh lord i wish it was different"
but there's no place for a dreamer
in this cold calculated world
where clocks and geese tap out
morse code on geese droppings
rivers, carrying the waste--
the time we could have been
working on a poem
or making a festive dinner
such is irony--a bridge needing mending
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| poem and photo by selah~(c) |
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