This Jenga of breadsticks and pencils,
Shoelaces and knives,
Is about to fall apart.
No point in propping my fingers against it,
Not with one-color birds scattering
To lands of rain
And lands of gingerbread houses,
Lands of foamy fountains and horseshoes.
Knives in the back drawer
Sting like thorn-stars
As I root myself out of the earth.
The death-wind is as warm, dusty, black
As silhouettes against a navy summer
Wrenching—
After all the wood I have laid together,
The one-color birds
The one-color birds
Will go to the rain and the gumdrops.
I will crouch on the hill.
I will stand on the hill I never left,
gently laying myself to rest in the earth.
That magical grass will turn gold,
and burgundy.
Author notes
Becoming more in touch with myself psychologically.
Starting to understand why this is happening to me now.
Please tell me what you think.
Comments
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that was beautiful
So what was your motivation? I'm getting like three different motivations from this, I'm really courious
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