this poem
ghost-writes itself.
ticks flick between tocks
as an unfinished shadow rises
in backwards time,
cast now, from over there
and yet to be.
for I was never here, bones and meat
and commonplace lies,
dismantled before the feast.
I am still not here. Not yet,
though forming.
a beat
defines this land,
these days [ and nights ]
where everything
is counting-
one. two. STOP!
two white ones, always before the fast
is broken: they taste of licorice,
small packages of poison armed to dissemble.
to banish. calm. to send him away.
to dismantle his days.
[ and this irony is not wasted,
as a child, he hated licorice ]
no ... in brutal truth, to kill him,
kill him dead [ not the other kind ] -
cell by cell, deader than he was
before
and as empty as.
[ but she is learning of tolerance:
dreams of drinking abysinthe someday. ]
then, the run begun, it's back to one.
two. STOP again!
two red tiny demons to summon Eve, the biblical one, not
the edge of light and dark, although that too
applies.
pause,
a time spent burying dead things
in distractions,
trying not to count, though rarely
with success
until ... one. two. STOP yet again-
two more demons and this time we can hear
her whisper,
"and all misery is flowers waiting to rise."
Gold trophy winner
Honorable winner
Adding your comment:
Ahhh, my Friend...You were ALWAYS here, flesh & marrow tenderized by Truth. If you are only "forming" at this stage, then I certainly would wish to be there once the sculpture is completed. You are such an incredibly gifted writer. As I've mentioned to you numerous times...Publish. NOW. 
Thank you for entering my contest. Good luck, Sweetie. 
