chapstick moments written into calloused lips that never met the right words
to convey the meaning of the brightness lingering
in the sky as television static tells a story meant to continue into the next chapter
of life spent meandering through the dark coldness
enveloping paper cuts splintering through a desolate body brought down by thoughts feelings hopes dread anxiety
xocalataphobia
for me these trees, roots withering
they are breezes blowing over graves, i am
whirled, surging down bark-tinder air
through sunlit windows, snatched up and out again–
listen! down the stars i ran, to pluck down the real moon
Yes: there may be a drowsy innocence that is never again.
—
a lonely spirit grows in a sorrowful place,
it drags across the one who should care most.
witnessing the unhappiness, witnessing no face bright;
growing up unhanded and without care
it closed its arms around the ache, the bone, the bare, but never stopped hurting
weeping when there was joy and yet it was wrong to cause tears,
The spirit has grown so numb with its silence.
blossoming fevers pillowing out over a drab and dreary night
lulled into a false sense of confidence spelled in rectangular cursive badly drawn
on a bleeding chalkboard with rust-colored paint dripping
out into the bleachers sitting in the rain while the game waits
for the audience to start
but no one showed up to watch because they all passed out from exhaustion
after spending 30 years in the mines/mills/refineries/fields/warehouse/haberdasheries
because haberdashery is fun to say
but easier to misspell
Fred Aiken Writing 