calvertsblog

white paint,

popcorn ceiling,

still air,

bad feelings.

distant voices,

dusty covers.

rusty bunk-bed,

rediscover.

frayed carpet,

squeaky door,

flickering light,

creaking floor.

broken mirror,

blurred face,

wrinkled skin,

out of place.

unfamiliar,

forever changing.

always due -

the ceiling

is knockdown.

unlike the popcorn

i stared at in my

youth.

although,

it feels

just the same

when the air is

still and quiet.

the bed

is queen.

so there’s room

for the two of

us.

still,

the silence

mocks me

when my hand slips

in my jeans.

the ceiling

is knocked down.

the sky was

so nice to

see.

pity,

the cage

left in the wake

won’t seem to

thinking of the future,

preparing for the future;

wishing i would wake up from a deep sleep

and i would already be there.

i spent two decades wondering -

what will my second decade

look like?

grasping the rose of life

perplexed and astonished

in the folds of its petals.

its thorns are deep in my palms,

blood flows down my arm; still,

my attention is unwavering,

fixated on the rose;

on all that matters.

i’ve spent no time

researching infection

or caring for my wounds.

i’ve spent no time

living with the flower

or strolling through the garden.

instead i bide my time.

i sit and stare and wonder

how did i get this rose to begin with?

together we wither, and i know