Discontent. Clings as wax dries,
opaque and trapped in triviality.
This stratosphere of muted trauma
allows my aching neck to bend-
irresolute lids battling my cumbersome
brow. Once, I flew. Feathers fall-
and to stand tall is a sin. Slash,
mangle, wrench out the tendrils.
They can't hold you as he once did.
To watch you breathe through frosted glass.
What is it you see? Vanity, in the pane of
my personal despair. Defibrillate me with a
glance, sedate me with a look- truth is only
found in the gloss of an eye. Dawn is when
my ribs will rise and fall. Seared by
unwilling lips, the synaptic trail of what
cannot be forgot. I cling, fearful of the
inevitable loss, and linger in the reflection-
hoping to glimpse your pupil of deep black.
Share This Poem