the slow lonely moments

The Slow Lonely Moments

Is it better to have it all or to lose it all?

The slow lonely moments

that drip by and drizzle

like stampeding tar

black and ugly.

It’s a lanky sedated parade

of disingenuous smiles

barely rippling the surface

of the ancient tongue-tied statue

who can’t feel the grains

of the windlessly sliding surfaces

of its own stoic seams.

A stalactite,

lingeringly apologetic,

that stutters and tumbles over the tongue of the cave

teeth like boulders,

lips like tidal waves

that never bring you home.

Stuck between the aisles

of hope and hopelessness,

it’s a wandering journey

of porous protection.

It’s a shield of silky slinking feathers

whose insignificant spines snag

the thin fabric of your disastrously diseased,

your brittle dry bones

of crumpling crying cringing creation

scrambling for some semblance

of ribbon-laced reality,

of some place of permanence

that leaves you incapable of stagnation

and desperate for something broken.

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