Man hangs, happily distracted,
From a dream of smoke.
In another world; his
Friend is at one end
Of a fight-tense line.
Between them a woman whose
Skeleton is a charity-shop stool frame.
Across the smooth water
A thin stick holds up a man.
Me? I’m here; balancing unsteadily
On a reflection that shifts and
Cannot possibly be me
I’m not that colour, I’m not
That rigid, that tired, don’t
Look as old as the water
So faithlessly shows.
Oh, what a beautiful write. Once again. Love the references of the fragile balance. Be it life, a person or emotion. The denial of time.
You write outstanding poetry, dear.
pools of thought
~
we’re all distorted
in reflection
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