Friday, March 2, 2018

Previously Published on The Camel Saloon . . .

Where Nothing Lies

The pillow screams
against my eyes’ attempt to smother
the severity of their plight.  We have
played this scene too many times to see. 
The ending is cold and clichéd.  To hell
with the moon and its silvered fortune.  I am
its forgotten daughter, tortured
by the sound of my own
name.  I cannot dream myself
into being
                 solid.  So I sink
                                           through the seams
of these perfect
ly unsoiled sheets.


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Previously Published on Clutching at Straws . . .

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