The familiar voice, a constant whip, rips

Bits of metaphorical flesh to fleck

The truculent air like a moist firework.

If one listens— the recriminations

Claw, maul, snag and cut to reshape the past;

The pressure provides us old forms to drape

Like silk shrouds upon the dead and dying.


I hear the fears of my world, the cold doubt

Niggling each broken phrase, like a dry catch

At the back of the throat. I do not know

What to believe, or which patch can still fix

The tattered fabrications, or which will

Transform into the next tale to be told

Before the voice begins to speak again.


(December 29, 2017)

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