Atticus

A wanderlust, drifting mime
lays on the stone.

How abhorrent to be alone.
We are, afterall, beloved.
In a prison cell we work

to the bone.

We’ve made it.
Oh, but how strange it feels.
There are no banners,

or orchestras, or flags.

We slip into the yellow afternoon
like a hidden fix.

Think quick, stitch on a smile.
We blend in with the furniture.
Sleepy old folks call me Virginia.

I almost feel amused.
How long until the next hapless limbo?
Our tired bulwark rests her haggard head.

it’s like hunting down a rabbit.
the stark fear in their eyes,
the metallic smell of lithium
underneath the moons of your nails

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s