Friday, August 1, 2014

i am flattened between panes of antique glass
thin, fine glass - imperfect & undulating
sandwiched - pressed
held in place for some mysterious-mercury-reason
held  . .
in . .
place . .
feelings illusive & cloaked
laying pressed & folded-in
yearning for air & the echo of happiness
able to quietly observe this august sky-perfection
but can not touch
or smell,
or breathe in
pressed as an ancient prom flower
cornflower perhaps, or stephanotis
with heather & violets
preserved & held captive
this bell-jar moment echoes of the empty
no scent & breeze . .
color seems distant, removed . . . faded
what contraction of muscle will tip the fragility ?
what contraction of will could free the light &  rhythm ?
do i rest or resist ?
when does  resistance create the glass boundary ?
rock, paper, scissors
pause, rest
await the shift
and prepare to shatter this crystalline cage

1 comment:

  1. How I wish I get scissors and cut myself out. I love the imagery: Rock, Paper, Scissors? Is there ever a solution?