You’re a poem now,
(My poem)
Crumpled and torn
From my book of
Borne into light.
You’re a match-stick man –
All angles,
Elbows, and knees;
A puppet loosed
Of his strings.
It’s not
Even worth penning
About, how translucent,
And unraveled,
Disheveled –
A cinder block
I think fondly
On other tenants
Who treated
Thier roles with
Haphazard care.
I fondle the edges,
Trace memory’s ledges,
And flick what remains
Of you into the
Of another night’s
Interrupted slumber.
One gentle tug
On silver cord,
I drag you back
Into the light
On my mind’s stage.
Dance my shadow puppet,
Recite poetic refrains,
Glide through
Gentle dreamscapes tonight.



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