there’s that moment when they just keep pushing–
the little pry,
the half-heard bar.
‘n then the damn dam comes crashing down.
‘n with fidget fingers you clutch the ragged ruins,
clutching at the clatter sprawl–
groping for the pieces of the fall.
‘n they don’t get the damage done,
‘ n they don’t see coming plunge,
‘n I’d rather be writin’ my world end tales,
I’d rather be craftin’ splinters to use,
I’d rather be runnin’ than clutchin’ at these walls.
I’d rather be than Be,
but that’s what they want of me.
the little pry,
the half-heard bar,
quiet pokes at old scars.
