I was ruminating, recycling
your voice -No words just the brogue just the lilt just sounds of synonyms of us- in
my mind. Another
echo
brokenly bouncing in my mind, my mind.
My mind, sometimes, goes to dark places,
like
if hope is a thing with feathers,
let us strip it of its down
and barbecue it…
Eat that Emily Dickinson, you solid, me evaporating
ever ruminating, heart emaciated, self-worth depreciating
My mind, sometimes, goes to dark places,
and does not come back.
If I do not publish this verse i will discard of it as happens to maybe-beautiful things
