Down The Rusted Needle
Down the rusted needle
into a work of art –
fast-paced, missed out on
the joy of nothing to do.
The eyes as sharp as the nerves,
performing surgery on every detail.
A million white feathers
tipped the scale, and babies only panic
for lack of love as does
the most hardened of us all.
Needing some absolutes like
“destiny” and God’s voice sure
inside my head. Needing to feel
that this ghetto of closed dreams
is just me reeling in my cowardice –
an unacclaimed somebody.
But to wait on the telephone or TV or some
future killed-anguish in this place where nothing blows
nor ceases to burn is like a decade with no holiday or
a cracked egg on the lawn.
But to try…
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