The pink ooey gooey of my creative soul
Rushed and ridged and held by a thumbed through fear,
Of getting good and messy and ruining my new starched dress.
Afraid is too near a word, and I am too far away to feel
Much of anything these days. The click-clack-clap-clap
Of my days trickling by.
---
I feel myself dying, the slow wrenching away of dissolving bone.
The pit-pat of aging skin, getting rougher, callouses on both thumbs.
The memories being turned into some strange soup. Thought
provoked and losing things, always; the thoughts that spread off the page.
The dying of my eggs, dried out, never good to begin with. It's all a bit
Disheartening. This damned stale and stiff living thing.
---
Travel bound. Imagining things packed, my feet solid on the
ground, for a flight over the ocean.
My new bags in my new baby-soft hands (in my imagination
Everything is new and fresh and perfectly promised).
I think about it and hum to myself in a slow toned girly
Thought-voice: "and nothing will waste away".
I so wish that were true. And since it isn't I want to waste away
Immediately. Damned one way or the other.
So here I am waiting for a not too soon, too soon end.
"But remember that they will have to face God, who will judge
Everyone, both the living and the dead." (1 Peter 4:5)
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