When no one was looking she slipped
between the cracks and let herself fall,

gently past the buried books, with their long titles
and faded author names,

past poetry that blushed when looked at,
and shuffled its syllables in shyness

past accusations of infidelity among muses
(they went where the heating was good),

past history now, dusty but alive and sharpening
its claws against the concrete walls of memory,

past songs which wept when she looked at them,
their tears dropping silver notes into the darkness

past silences that emerged from the walls
staring with their nothingness eyes,

as she fell past, past, past it all, into
welcoming wordlessness.


One response to “untitled

  1. So beautiful. I am chanted.

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