The closets and chest of drawers



When the rusted cut of coffee

slices through

tetnus express, I embrace

what I cannot change.

When morning breaks the mourning

of the weeping soul I left in the closet

last night, I will embrace

the embers of

the smoldering tribe.

Placing delicate fingers

retracing precious memories

the dust covered photo books

could never measure up

something tangible

something credible

If only I could touch the light

that dances off of the dust

dancing to the breeze

of my movements.

Yet, stuffing my demons

back into the chest of drawers

catching fingers along the way

I am content to remove

the cobwebs from my soul

and start again.

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