Poetry at times involves going off the deep end. Other times lyrical phrases can be light and airy. Then there comes the melancholy, the angry and all the other emotions. The following poem comes from a collection I’m building and brushes life’s landscape with broad strokes in dark areas…
All the Wrong Places
Bring us no closer to death than the wind’s whisper from our grandmothers’ graves
No further from love than the rise and fall of our lovers’ breasts
We cling to our distractions, desperate souls in search of meaning
From that which we cannot understand.
Who are we? Conscious, aware beings,
Cognizant of too little and too much at once
Living in a frantic world of habitual chaos
Too-fast-to-live and too-soon-to-die realities.
Our pleasures, snatched, stolen.
Our personal histories – barren shelves –
Devoid of soft moonlit strolls or nestled spooning
Instead, data transfers and emotional disasters tracked…
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