July 2014
To You,
I blame all things on this body,
an increasingly unfamiliar form
disguised by the paint of many wars,
paint effortfully applied to make it my home.
But it's not a place where I'm at ease.
It demands too much from me with its
always overreaching arms
flexed in false confidence
searching for something to embrace.
Fitful fistfuls of fingers
like a herd of unruly children
touching and teaching.
And these damn legs
that have forgotten how to bend in rest
and only know how to run.
This body is a dangerous collection of angles
through which faulty wires run live
triggering a symphony of false alarms.
And in this catastrophic noise and motion
I try to live and find some truth.
But I am just a voiceless passenger
who watches things disassemble
from the ceaseless vibration of this body.
Your Friend,
A
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