between my thumb
and my index finger
are an ocean of dots and crosses,
deserted in some far away nowhere,
once so close to being rescued,
screaming, waving,
convulsively shaking
for a home
never realized,
left with a whimper
and then
with nothing,
not even a lingering memory
of what could have been.
1 comments:
This is about all those poems that were on the cusp of creation but never came to be. Bye bye poems.
I was a bit haphazard with the stanza breaks, and I wanted to make the abstract ideas a bit more tangible here, but whatever says I.
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