Anita Magdalena

Anita Magdalena

Saturday, 27 July 2013

Storm In My Fist

I was the strong type 

crumbling on the inside 

when no one 
was looking in 
and the sparkle fell 
from emerald gems 
into the gutter 
like discarded rubbish 

the storm in my fist 

dug into my palm 

my pocket 
the silent place I plunged it 
ashes under my feet 
the remains 
of the nothing 
that used to be dreams 
scorched impossible 
like dying embers 

draped in the tapestry 

of stolen promises 

the glue on words spoken 
often come unstuck 
lacking glitter 
like the dirt under fingernails 
and I was wild once 
like an untamed child 
all ragamuffin 
and grazed knees 
with tangled hair 

I guess time cannot help 

but be a thief of things 

creeping through the night 
with its swag bag 
and my disappearing life 
I bet that is where souls go 
all bunched up 
trying to escape its grasp 
some slipping 
through the gaps 
coming back just to start 
all over again. 

(1 step 2 step 3 step 4) 

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