A day in a night of a dream where I wake with a scream.
Yet I seem to beam to where they sing that I won’t be but I seem.
I sit wide eyed facing a black corner drawing me in deeper into a thing that’s
Not there but only I can see its meeting place. Between where one might lean
In their seam sewed tight no room for me but he and she. Oh! Leave them and then let us be. Why
Not me? But I know of them and what they do no analogy of or for what they see.
That’s just it I can’t say thee will hear but I can say thee will be here and no corrections of no sorts.
Mingled in my skirts no legs just limbs. Limbs hung on to like I was to be built like a tree. Held on to be a
ravished little ole me. That’s not what I want to be. I yield yet no repercussions just the
banging that may be a drum. A drum so strong it could be a heart of life so steady it starts to speed.
No steps but stutters along a track of melodies and that thing you make of it that bit probably more
than fickle is to melt and never to be met by a stream so rapid it lit to numbness that eventually pricked
Skin rough to protect what’s not to be in limits and flicks across that way and the other in which
way I may bother or will I rue and rip this part out of sight just so what’s to be known is only prone to
one simple call by a yell so loud it’ll rupture and puncture that balloon that’s been blown cherished by
plastic that shimmers with glitter just to follow what justice is blind as the one who is there but ain't.