my own murder

time is no longer my accomplice

i can’t get away with my own murder
the way i could when days were without number

now each sun is an accursed gift
mine not to squander but to hoard jealously
to protect fiercely from flood and famine

i raise my fists in worshipful defiance
to find that they rest in my lap, open,
waiting for dreams to fall through
into the future of my past

3 comments

      • JMC813

        Writing is a very cathartic and healing thing. I feel the same way about shaping words. I call it word craft. It is how I keep the Demons away, while feeding my creative monster.

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