Mind Lies


Snagged by the dark prickles
lurking in secret places,
thoughts sneak in
stealthy and sly,
stinking of car exhaust and burnt toast.
Coarse limits,
lowered sky
pushing down on my head.
Closed rooms,
must and dust and
lies upon lies
like choking weeds that never die.
Mercy takes my scratched hand,
a glimpse of light,
washed air,
the scent of my grandmother's perfume-
comfort like warm bread.
Relief
lifts my dry, tired chin
and I can see.

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