the myths woven by us

reflect a splintered fragment like splintered glass 
in a mirrored rear-view
on a rusted car sitting in the woods abandoned
 
invented stories come out of our yawning abyss, 
from our minds, half asleep
 
the fluid movement of our words moves with 
unnerving ease, like wet 
paint dripping off a ‘wet paint’ sign
 
we get addicted to our thoughts like a drunk gets
addicted to an empty liquor bottle
 
we play out of tune like evaporated milk, 
yet we drink it
 
we play with others then toss them aside 
like glued labels on old sneakers,
 
to them, can’t have the pain without 
the pleasure
 
we look out of the corner of our eye 
like a blind cat looks around
a corner searching for blind dogs
 
we believe there is a light inside us 
surrounded by four stones,
 
the soul, the heart, passion, and belief,
 
yet we weave the myths 
with a needle  
and invisible thread,
 
but that’s like sewing a bullet into a revolver,
 
once the shot is fired, the damage is done
 
we have disclosed ourselves like 
water has disclosed 
itself to a crack in a dam
 
and then we try to put the water into 
a single cup and offer it 
to someone who’s drowned
 
we prey on other’s weaknesses 
like dust preys on a drought;
 
feathers once filled a small room,
 
paid a penalty for participating 
in child’s play
 
feathers float through stale air,
children grab as to catch,
 
much like myths woven
by them at 
some time in the future
 
when they realize their dreams can’t be touched,
much like the feathers
 
much like lost car keys to an abandoned, rusted car,
the wet paint no longer drips…
 
 
Copyright © 04/02/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®
Image
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