Bare branches of a place I thought
had finally fleshed out. Flowers had
flourished over a skeleton of sadness,
their breath breathing into lost
lungs, full head of hair on a blank
skull. I was alive. I was real. I was
not a waste.
But I am not so different. My heart
remembers how to break, my head
remembers how to forget joy.
My body still fits into the grave
waiting for it, wind breathing
sadness over me, flowers resigned
to the ground, trees losing leaves
with every stretch to the sky.
Home a place lost, regained, lost
again.
~September 22, 2010
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