Distance

As we move, we hide ourselves.
Distance, an illusion
our senses take comfort in.

Our lips clench,
sipping wine, cups empty —
sweeping dusty attics

locking up skeletons.
Our prose becomes hyperbole,
and poetry — no space for that.

(Visited 33 times, 1 visits today)

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *