01
May
15

#26

Having torn pages

from my life’s notebook,

I want to recreate passions

from the past.

 

The churning of images in

my mind,

only magnify the sounds of

a rustling sheet.

 

The empty feeling somewhere in the

pit of my stomach,

brings back more pain than hope,

and

a euphoric fragrance seems to

envelope me.

 

I can hear the sardonic

cackling

of my loneliness,

through the stupor of my

transition.

 

I try to begin a new notebook

but

the discarded sepiad pages

keep fluttering back.

 

I don’t want them!

 

For now

I am writing volumes

on new and loud silences,

with flowers as

my

words.

 


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