Rambling

Weight is just gravity pulling you down
and the more of you there is
the heavier you grow
and that’s why when we’re children
we can still fly.

Am I making sense?

I write when I’m lonely
so I don’t accidentally forget
I exist.

They promised there’d be snow falling
outside my window
but all that’s there
is the crusted-over remains
of last week’s flurry
and that’s how you make a metaphor.

When I pull into the driveway
after work, in the dark,
my headlights pick up tracks.

They’re hoof steps or fox paths
unless I draw close
and they’re only prints
from the neighbor’s dog.

There’s magic in mystery
and a bitter taste
to sated curiosity.

Tonight,
when I closed my eyes,
instead of black I saw a smokescreen
and for a moment I was certain
if I opened them back up
I’d never see again.

My eyes still find
silhouettes of monsters in the dark
but I haven’t the sense
to be afraid anymore.

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