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®