PROSE POETRY
Warped Window
A poem about self-reflection
Published in
Feb 23, 2021
The lake is silver. The sky, pale. The trees appear shadows of themselves. And I am yellow, as the sun that has already set. I can’t look at myself without burning up — and yet, they tell me I’m supposed to identify a form.
The lamp is over-bright, plastic. The window is warped. My pen is shaky, like my jaw, tired in its wasted energy. What am I supposed to chew on? What am I supposed to burn into oblivion?
