Chestnut chickadees chirp on cheerfully

Outside my dabbled desert dormancy,

But it’s deathly quiet, still

In this house.

 

If this pith still pined

By that briny’s beach

You’d be in, in due time

Shoulder shrugged with ice cream.

 

These days have been so busy,

And so abysmally dragging;

A prasarita padottanasana

With my tongue splayed out my mouth.

 

I’ve opened derelict doors

To find familiar spirits…

The blessed light now grants me

Faces to put to their names.

 

I’ve no ordnances in which to contend them—

No inherent honor, no pureness incased in sterling.

A lifelong lesson etched into dusty stone,

But perhaps my heart will serve; much stronger than I know.

 

This affects me like we bore the same blood.

This stings me like we respire twin debris.

But it’s deathly quiet, still

In this house,

 

Beneath the stable unpredictability.

 

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