daily I watch the street corners
for the skeletal lamp-work of human beings
waiting for a bus
my life is everything borrowed
and saved
blind circumstance and Second-Hand Rose
when I'd prefer a life well-written,
like a first novel
voices near me crackle candy-coated intelligence
spouting random bytes to replace the real
if this were a train
(of thought)
I was on, we were on,
we'd all fall off the tracks
daylight doesn't seem to illuminate
and night doesn't hide away
sticky truths
planets whirl away outside
their orbits
their expected cycles
in grand decay
I see my life as a series of
six short vignettes and
this is the fifth
a 70% solution with
roughly under 30% left
once I believed I was never boring
because I rarely grew bored
now moments hang as stalled pendulums
I find myself to be a lost line
of a long forgotten poem
when, SHE announced, abruptly
on the bus to anyone who'd listen:
"all poetry is found in dusty books,"
while she blew pale-pinkish bubbles of sugar-free quality
and re-glossed her pout to a pretty glisten..
"musty and foul defunct philosophy..."
all proclaimed as
she pugnaciously punched at her iPhone;
she, the new, modern muse Pygmalion.
Copyright December 26 2013
All Rights Reserved By This Author
Written on Her Birthday
Meloo/Melissa A Howells
Tilt-a-World
