I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
There is no magic here: just streetlight sparkled snow But the fact is that these sparks seem to spin into constellations for my eye
By D. J. Reddall3 months ago in Poets
Make what it is like For you to be yourself, in The world, legible
By D. J. Reddall4 months ago in Poets
Zombie narratives Talking endlessly without Anything to say
I had good reason to be annoyed, even a little angry When you decided to add winter to my list of reasons to despair You made the air an adversary and the improperly sealed windows
Let us be grateful Even terrible stories Must come to an end
Here are the words, nervous about meaning As little as the mute mote in the beam Here is the dust, beautifully gleaming
Make creation itself your strange subject Involve yourself in its old mystery Conventional wisdom blithely reject Paint potential as actuality
Dehumanizing Insults invariably Become boomerangs
Time and gravity, her embarrassed foes Brushed out of being by an outstretched arm The shocked, arboreal audience knows That paint can preserve anyone from harm
Perhaps the new law will not come at all Our prophet may be mad, or sore deceived; How shall we live? What is the protocol?
The glittering sludge Could drown human creations Teach them how to swim
Some eyes make blindness seem impossible Reading life down to the final footnote How good it feels to be so legible You know the twists of my story by rote
