The Melancholy

We are melded memories, genes that argue like children:
Who got there first? Who’s turn is it? Who is mom’s favorite?

In life we walk barefoot atop a white picket fence,
our longings swaddled in fleece held to warm flesh.

When fatigue arrives, we apologize as if the world were our own fault.
Blame, like a psoriatic second skin thickens tongues, dulls flesh.

We wander the aisles, pluck at shelves without purchase.
We awaken each morning to a dream of being awake forever.

We are burnt to ash bone.
There is that hint of something in your cloudless eyes.


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2 Responses to word-poem:\\melancholy

  1. mark says:

    yes, very good, thank you.

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