Friday, July 14, 2017

He's a Rabbit

who traded his blood for ink.
Cut from paper with endless
typewriter ribbon,
dressing his wounds.

Finds comfort in the dust
that coats his words--
in the tangle of lost
poems between
ticking clocks and
sun showers through leaves.

He loves the woods
so hard others don’t have
the strength to hear.

He’s almost a shadow
who hums the taste
of what he wants.

He wonders about his bones.

But it’s a slow steady
shrinking into thinking…

What about the rain?

He could disintegrate.
He’s gone unless
he can create.

She conjures up a second heart
to house his sweet pain.
No windows to the world,
only time.

Thankful he’s not ripping.

He needs her.
She drags him from the brink of madness--
the forest’s edge.
Far away from his habit-forming insecurities.

Can he stop looking back
at what might have been?

She holds him close
and frees him from his fear to breathe.
A small tear where fur should grow.

She carries him close, pulls the arrows
from his back.

If only he stopped being frightened of a day--
wasted away,
of being alive.

The sun sets.

And nearing the end,
Tick tock,
or is it click clack?
Keys printing ink on paper.

Life is a circle--
running from the past
from the future.

He’s browning.
He’s wrinkling.

Maybe there’s a moon,
maybe it’s the fullness of his muse.
He hears the howling in the dark,
runs to catch her.

Pressed now, untouched in a book.

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