Sometimes the gray sun
is like dry rain
other times an old bone
Sometimes there’s a whisper
from the inner-ear, a drag of words
announcing a profusion
of discontent
There are times I wear sadness
like deep sleep
so rising into the day
creates a storm that places its mouth
over my ears
and blows cold wind
to produce a melodramatic silence
Some days I hold tightly
to the quiet that surrounds me
and listen to the dead
for they have much to say
about unfinished lives
Beneath the fog’s tarp
moisture is a wet parachute
undulating in the air
and light’s eye
has rolled back into its skull
Sometimes I ask out loud
What is the point?
But my thoughts are
discombobulated, misdirected
and I wait
for a voice to answer
but there
are so many
that I cannot
separate them
yet,
somebody inside is listening
and keeps
laughing and laughing
---------------------------------------------------
from my sixth book-length manuscript
©dah / dahlusion 2015/2016 all rights reserved
"Misdirection" was first published in
'Red Wolf Journal'
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