May 9, 2022
It’s Time
for the next story
And in the end the wreath has a name — different — to the ones you loved — in the living years.
“Take it from me¹” he said; “the shadows on the floor are brittle² — and are the type to be wrapped in³…” — and got snapped back by —
the voices in the head — feeling important again — commanding the legs to behave whilst the arms — getting the proportions all wrong, dallying frivolously — failing to keep the distance — required strictly of them.
“There were people before — and after. Yet, they are not the same people.”
For that which happens, changes people. Beams the coffee-stained teeth with wisdom. Age-old and rancid with bitter truth.
Then the blessings come — always in disguise — armed with strong alibi — lest they are posed with threats about all the good luck.
Throat, refusing to cooperate with the swallowing of more than the pride — now presents you with some moaning — that gets declared illegitimate promptly — in case the silence gets offended.
Not wanting to appear in the visible region of the spectrum, the writing then fades — leaving the ink to fondle the cursive — dressing down and prepping up — to be transposed into the next story with — no sudden moves⁴— this time.
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- 1, 2 ,3 & 4— excerpts off and in response to J.D.’s irresistible Saturday Poetry Prompt: take it from me;
