Out at the poetry wall, to our dismay, we found that someone had cleared the writings. We quietly surveyed the remnants of paper on the ground, and I gathered their moist, tattered edges trying to re-position them them on the alligator clips.
but everything dies to be born anew, yes?
The Poetry Wall, a place where we drive, many of us, from all over the town, and we leave pieces of paper, cardboard, cloth and whatever else we can find to spin our emotional webs, filled with our words for the next pair of eyes.
the messages; I needed them. I soaked them in like water. Each short stanza, every moment which seeped itself into the air, I breathed.
“i know it’s hard, but don’t let it get to you. BE STRONG!”
and so I left a hug, a piece of myself, just in case they came back, because I understood the pain, and how the eyes do give it away.
i hung my own piece of myself to leave behind, a mention of a passing knowing, an acceptance and a memory.
Looking down, beneath my foot, a tattered piece that caught the breeze and suddenly I was holding it in my hand. It knew me, introduced itself, left its forever scent on my being and confirmed I am not alone.
“it seems to me that I will always be happy in the place where I am not.”
and then I saw the irony of it all, as I stood on the gravel sidewalk watching my nephew have his time with the post. My eyes fell to his t-shirt, and the poetry he wore became the chuckle in my throat.
overworked and underfucked….
welcome to the Poetry Wall.
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