subtext

A constant trickle of lost moments:

ends and edges, border crossings;

all metaphor’s lost as it is written.

Doubt falls from devouring mouths

only to serve recrimination’s echo.

What can be said whose foil does not

wait with snide repose for blood

to present the unremarked thrust?

It’s over. Each day remains a hollow shell

even the scuttling hermit crab ignores.

Beyond nostalgic brooding and regret,

nothing’s to be done. Any agency

collapses beneath the puppeteer’s hand

as she lays the cut strings across the sand.