How many ways can you say
"Sing to provide the world with
oxygen, sing for your life"
when you know your voice
is flat and grainy with the effort.
Lean your arms on the wooden bridge
for the photographic peace
but your arms are blood and sore
and your feet won't keep you standing.
Ten years ago you thought you'd
be the water, for fleeting eyes
caught up in the consistency of light
would never see you gone--
lost to the perpetual replay of seconds.
But now it's you, eyes burned
with steadfast refraction
on the hint of water you forget
is flowing beneath the sturdiness
of your solitude.
Author notes
shrug
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