I polish mirrors.
My story is the collision of what I say
with what you hear or
something careless
That I’m here for
just a sentence
Poorly wrapped
A bow untied
Unzipped
Unstacked
All fallen rose petals
Under-watered
wilted pages
Roots of wounded
Periphrasis
Antlers shed
Their velvet read
With some words flown
from lips and bone
much is left unsaid
Forensics show my story
s-stumbled
Witnesses heard three shots fired
My story bleeds channels
Along sidewalk seams
It seems my time expired
That I was right handed
makes my writing
average
marginalized
a ricochet of plans gone awry
Life stays two paces
ahead of mine
Still this story missed it’s stop
Back to the pages of your story again
when do I drop my polishing cloth
where does this sentence end?
Landed right on target.
it never ends..
punctuation, stuffed in a sack with big stones, tossed from a tall bridge into the water below. it just keeps going on… save for these ellipses …
life happens in the ellipses.. in between