Beneath what is deceived
Abilities lie in weak performance
With no desire to explore it
Squinting at the sight of it's importance
Interest mocking rocking back-and-forth
Ferocious it torches explanation to, "What is more?"
Truth shows as the first remark
Overpowered by the inability to stop, feeling.
Decibels attract supplying what we fiend
But we deny at fault.
Too personally developed by what is not
Forgotten, fixed, panic to every twist.
The price of awareness lock in the midst
Over-handling what was missed
Chance the change imaged
Assume the end has no limit.
About the Creator
Sol Devereaux
Coach | Student | Las Vegas | I like to express my mind.
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Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson4 days ago in Fiction
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