April 1, 2009 § 6 Comments
There’s a distance that happens
as I reach the peak, a blueness, bold –
then yellow – settling in my brittle bones. It comes
upon and after the rhythm has commenced, the rocking pulse of
liquid coursing in
extended veins, pushed past themselves too much too long;
a pulse that not-so-gently plots its course while sweeping bare the
fallen underfoot. They are swept away, poisoned
by its intent: its duty is to kill – not maim –
as it tackles what remains.
And what remains has been removed, but what remains – invisible –
is what remains.
Writer’s Digest prompt April 1, 2009