sidelined mutinies do not stop seething.
feet pressed against the floor
hands in pockets
deep breaths, meditative rage all
balled up in backs and shoulders
waiting for a flight to come
wishing to the absent ether
that someday i might board.
i am immutable in my ways, as poison is in its purpose.
shell-shocked protesters,
didn't know what they were doing
you can stumble into a corner
and still have no clue
what the walls are made of.
my walls are of concrete and sanskrit
very few can discern
just how dead the writing on the wall is
how impenetrable they might seem.
it takes two windows to force a draft.
1 comment:
this is super b.a.
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