“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Sunday, March 3, 2019
Wait and see
That is how things collapse,
you know how it goes,
all at once.
From experience,
there was no other way.
I survived a major earthquake,
yet none jolt the nerves like those
fault lines
connected to the heart.
So, it is never
really one thing-at a time,
rather what we choose to do or see
about it,
like finding a moldy blueberry
and leaving it with the rest.
It makes one turn to meat,
foregoing the fruit.
There is a dotted line between
poison and penicillin.
There is more to throw away
than keep.
Rebuilding is going to require
everything,
except
accepting to live in the rubble
of what once stood
up to/against.
Image credited by Nyttend in [Public domain].
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