There is something wrong with the post man
he forgets my house
drives away in that flimsy cart
humming to himself, oblivious of
my need, he be wrong
return and fill
the emptiness with
some approximation.
There is something wrong with the phone
it lays silent and sleeping
unlit and needful of
nothing rung or called
I shake it and stare
in the absurd notion
by doing so will cause
something done, to be undo
a knot we can pick
with stiff fingers and
urging pretend
all is well when
it is broken and lost
to the gravity of
changing seasons
flickering, mirrored, illusionist light
turning fear into something golden and bright
then just as fast, back again
taking away certainty
with deft slight of hand.
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Those capricious goddesses, The Fates, spinning out hopes knotted with disappointments, make of us toys to their whims, all their plans and motives hidden behind veils of illusion.
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Reblogged this on cabbagesandkings524 and commented:
At Hijacked Amygdala, Candice Louisa Daquin contemplates the letter that does not come, the call that does not ring.
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Well written 🙂
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that thrice cursed Trickster
shape shifting everywhere
stealing everything
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