A Poem

Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash

For centuries the image haunted
me, counting me like driftwood
become thousands of pieces
after the fire
Now up on the soapbox
screaming at the world to stop
kicking up quite so much dust
to stop the obscuring of this replica
of life
There is this ideal meditation
that we slip through, that charges
the purposes we put up
like broken hands in a boxing ring
All the cups that we’ve knocked
off the counter accidentally
lining our sick…



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J.D. Harms

J.D. Harms


Former hairstylist, perpetual philosophy student, swallowed by poetry, writing, ideas