Do Not Laminate . . .

 

The rumpled edges of my train pass

                          speaks of many voyages . .

the dirt that clings,                    

                the smudges that blur,

and the shiny heart       

that once embraced a              

            street light glow,

and amber lights

                  like quasi suns

with halos and darts

spattered bright         

              and lamentations of

 semi-permanence . . . .

 

Inside of me is a hollow woman,

ravenous and filled with desire. . .            

hungry for a universe,        

longing for a world

that lights up beneath the song

of existence. . .

as nothing is much more than             

a whisper in the wind          

a teardrop in the rain;

I close my eyes                 

and there is the shadow of an

 abyss and                

nothing but the music    

with an echoing refrain . . .

If all I have . . .           

is myself

                      without a heart

or an umbrella . . .

to ward off the storm . . .

of fire . . .                    

and if all I am

       is the frame of myself

made of metal,                 

rusted and dented

yet seeking             

the fragile. . .

              If all I saw

was emptiness

and loneliness. . .          

the world a whiteness,

              no mountain peaks,     

nor ocean depths . . .

                 If all I heard

was silence. . .                 

the whisper of nothing

I would never know

to say good-bye

I would never know

you

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