Empty Shell

I found a perfect shell on the beach, all the edges

were smooth, the corners just right.  She was the palest

pink, like the sky before sun appears, and her

ridges were spaced just right, as if carved by a sculptor.

No sand clung to her, for she was too smooth to mar.

As I held her to my cheek, and she whispered,

“Empty inside.” Did she speak of herself?

Or me? I slipped her in my pocket,

as a way to hide.

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Willful Canyons

Willful canyons carved

of bones beneath flesh,

rise and fall marking empty

spaces, outside and inside.

Once a smooth landscape,

now stark desert land,

sharp angles of deprivation,

ribs like ridges of carved rock

punished by anger

and the ravages of sun’s glare.

Punish the landscape

by withholding food, and it

rewards with new sharp angles,

art of light and darkness

over bones and flesh,

covering emptiness.

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Too Many Holes

Take every feeling that fights

its way in, capture it, lock it up

inside a wooden box with a skeleton

key.  Everything I feel is my enemy.

 

The soldiers of sadness of fear of regret,

they fire their weapons of emotion if

they get too close, leaving me with holes

clear through.  Every shot means

one more piece of me on the ground.

 

I have no weapon, so I arrest them as soon

as they appear.  There’s a tiny prison box

for each, so sadness never speaks to hope,

and guilt will never hear from pride.

 

Boxes line my walls, reverberating

cries, but I stand guard, in case more feeling

come by, for I already have too many

holes and too many skeleton keys.Image