baby-headsAndre Covia

Between hope and fear
I shift a skiff of clouds
into oncoming traffic.
There are secrets only
the rain dare express.

Sorrow is honest.
Sorrow is humble.
I am better for having wept.
Each and every smile has a name
and for the sake of future happiness
I confess a certain infatuation with misery.

First white, then grey
I am sick of colors,
of bullies modeling
their indignities
at my expense.

Are those babies’ heads posted
on top of clear glass bottles?
If I chop my heart into pieces
will I be able to fit it together again?
I hold out my ears
but still you do not speak.

Nothing good
ever came of teamwork,
nothing good ever came of us
but still we persisted.
Sometimes I think the silence
will swallow me whole
but then you blink,
wide-eyed and elastic,
and I remember why
I created you in the first place.



4 thoughts on “Photo Challenge #139 and Wordle #274

      1. My therapist calls misery my “comfort zone,” the space where I feel strangely safe — I can do “it” with my eyes closed. What is scary is the uncomfortableness of non-misery (I can’t say contentment, and definitively not happy. Yet.)

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