Friday, June 08, 2012

Poetry Friday: Plate


“This is my mother's bubble,” she said.
I just couldn't see it.
“Look at all this dust
I can't get enough of the stuff!”
This is his Atlas existence,
I just couldn't bear it.
“Look at all this work
I've got no plate of my father's.”
This is my graydom,
somewhere I could leave it.
I'd run like hell
and don my ribbons
till my heart had no more gravity
to bear it under.
This is her torture,
she tries to give it.
I wouldn't take any more.
I've planted feet in gardens
of bodyguards.
These are my feathers
my barbs, my quills of ink
I spill out all over the place
and gather inward again.

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