Eleven Times

Folded eleven times,

on old yellowed scraps,

sing or say it in rhymes,

our lives writ and wrapped.

 

Hemp twine and faded ink,

trapping hopes, regretful

deeds, those unwitting things

that creased the folds in deep.

 

The Lost Message, it said:

“I am here for you;

ink-stained, my pages frayed,

I fear for you, too.”

 

In blue margin-scribblings,

crawling and crazed lines,

responses – hurtful things,

a contesting rhyme,

 

they said, “You? Here for me? 

You were here, it’s true,

but only for you, dear,

your fear is not new.”

 

The eleventh fold’s reason,

I am reminded,

spared me that blue-bleeding.

I’ll fold a twelfth time.


© CGT, 2017.

Painful are the realizations that come far too late. Are we parasites that grow inside the lives of others? Once mature, do we cast aside their sucked-dry carcasses only to tell ourselves,

“Look how beautiful I’ve become!”

Pay no attention to the lifeless husks behind you.

 

 

Talk to me.

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