A Life In 40 Lines (Poetry)

A Life in 40 Lines



She was tired of life.

It was elementary, my dear Watson.

Life had been work, nothing but work,

just to pass as normal. She was a mimic.

Borrowing energy from bones and teeth

to stir the metabolism of a slug.

Years blurred ran together one big mishap;

collecting traumas like a kid with trading cards.

Trying to avoid all duplication, keeping major league,

one of kind, lucky break with errors and mistakes.



Awkward. It was awkward, bloody awkward,

hearing her own voice with that nervous laugh

saying light hearted silly ass shit, playing

the hapless fool, feeling everything that stings

and nothing that would feel good...

'cept maybe the sunshine,

when she calmed herself long enough to feel it.

Sleepy comfort for seconds and she would say,

Let me stay in this forever warmed and happy.

It doesn't get any better than this, she would think.



But she was always cold, never wanting to wake.

Life was the shadows viewed from the distance.

One long psychotropic drug induced crumble,

a frontal lobe stuttering along in exhaustion.

So on that day, well, it was like any other.

The confusion, the distraction, the standing

in the middle of the room lost wishing.

Wishing she could remember all she had forgot

where her scissors were and nail clippers...

and her scissors, her scissors, her sissors...



When they found her,

it was clear she had just fallen asleep

watching the biggest snow flakes

anyone could remember ever seeing.

Size of a 50 cent piece, they were.

Light...light as a feather

sticking to stone wearing a mad woman's

nobody at home stare

smiling as if...

she had never been warmer.






Brightfire Woman
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