The Present Will Always Bow To The Past


Time Is An Illusion

begins at the end
coiling itself backwards
from lesser to less.

The Wait

Seven soggy springs
Asleep on one side of bed
sinking oceanís deep, waiting, for
An apology which never came.

The Farmer

You plowed digging
Layer by layer for my heart
Beneath each sheet
There was another skin
Dogeared: alabaster, untouched.


The snail glided softly
Slowly in blackest of black
Glistening iridescent path, bridging
An unframed world
With the past.

Losing Is An Art, and I Do It So Well

Losing isnít hard. We practice everyday
Misplaced love, lovers, continents
Motherís daughter missing
you, but perhaps
I miss myself the most.
Author's Note
Entered in comp: Set of 5 short poems
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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