Think About the End Just Way Too Much | Poem

Shuffled into
a moment

The Recovery Home
Twinkles in the night

. . . sky.

The shadows of
Claw out of the

Broken branches
lay streaming over
the recently swept

Red-orange leaves
curl into self-soothing

The rainwater from the days
before swim into each other
like twirling colors
in a kaleidoscope

Breaths of air puff out
from the stranger’s mouth,
Sifting in the air like
ballerinas on stage

A performance.

It’s what the stranger
does best.

They lie in the moment,
Where their brain
Suggests ulterior motives.

They are fenced in,
the dead end sign
looming over their body
as they stare up at
it from the splintering

How long?
Do they wonder.

How long will
this moment last?

Because their bright days
of Recovery
slip through their fingers
like gravelly grains of sand.

And the dark corners of their
skull stretch forwards into
the black shell of the horizon.

How much
MORE can I handle?

they ponder, hands shaking with anxiety.

At what point
do I turn the other cheek
and walk away?

Tears creep into their eyes,
Stinging like wasps,

When am I
allowed to just
let go?

They shake their head,
Shoulders bobbing with
unshed–no, bloodshed

Likely never. . .

But always wishing.

Vent poem. Written 11/16/16


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