fate does leave
footprints
light and soft
as seagulls on sand
our skin
pulled from inside us
like spiders' silk
aims to mend...
holds the cogs of time
in taut suspension
inertia’s physiological grip
and so we hide the past
mostly
our webs still active
catching the morning dew
to gleam
this armoury of self
only massive days
(their hurl
and brutal crashing)
blunders holes
insensitive as tourism
and leaves us cliff-like
our auto biographies
written on our faces
and in the sky
a Parthenon
of tear tracks
Poignant this one, Worms! 👏
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you! 😊
LikeLiked by 1 person
😊
LikeLiked by 1 person
I can imagine, now that you’re in this post-treatment, self-care phase, it must be a mental challenge. Or perhaps I’m wrong about that.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Love it, Worms. Just love it.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you! Glad it spoke to you!
LikeLiked by 1 person