Not going to write a love poem.
Not going to look out there in that patch of space.
Where I loved someone more that I should have.
I sacrificed myself out there; lost pieces of me.
Not going to write a love poem.
For something that wasn’t.
Jenny W. Andrews copyright 2021
Excuses
Words cannot express the possibility, the probability.
Also,
there is no sound, not even in the silence.
End of the dictionary: Z.
I have reached the end.
Night fell; broke into pieces.
Flute lovingly caresses the night, displaced melody of butterflies racing across Spring valleys filled with sheep, green meadows, stones ancient and crumbling.
What whispers ceased to fall silently into the snow drifts?
Lights against the city-scape, a world doused with apple red wine, igniting nonsense.
Merry-go-round,
too many horses with too many marmosets in hot pursuit.
Can I ever exit the ride?
This fracture is blood and bone deep.
Great grandpa Anastacio abandoned Great grandma Francisca at the old train station on the Chilean border in a place ironically called Paso Los Libertadores.
I occupy this empty chair.
Jenny W. Andrews Copyright 2019
Jenny Grace's Poetry and Creative Writing Techniques 