a whiff off camphor



none of these life choices
are mine
though they are yours to enjoy
without so much as a batted lash
none of these improvisations 
are theirs
though we live barely existing
with not much more than breath

no choice could be given
no chance to chance upon
living and loving out of bounds
perimeter embankment of
social media static hairs
we aren't what we seem

should gladness pop up
from this tin of half used 
half punched return tickets
rightness or wrongness 
shall not, in this, interfere
nothing we think or say

what was once cherished 
has faded away, each moment
this today not the tomorrow
we peered into and reached for
all that's left is a soft head
and sunrises that have bowed

without grace or curtsy, left
with less meaning than rhyme
mine are its dregs, its shadows
theirs, are timbre and tone
its etched curves of bowing; 
arches clumsily lowing home



◄ Cinderella dreaming

Are you my butterfly? ►


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