Aren’t I lucky?
Isn’t she lucky?
Who does she think she is?
Who the hell are you?
Who do you think you are?
Their knives cut through the cords holding me bound in popular opinion.
Tag: Poetry
Salting myself, coarse friction,
dissolving granules
of earth and sea.
My skin hums, exposed to sensation.
My heart burns.
My mind intent on simple ritual and result.
I hum a funeral song for the departed
and the blessing of what once was.