On Pitch and Severing


This is a familiar tune of unrest, a sprawling ink, extended like arms, like grieving, like these awkward days, like the angry stir of seasons, a broadening toll. Yet another body draped in some bitter fashion, from a tree, along the concrete, face down, forward, or forever still in uncertain circumstances, under certain stance, the unmistakable silence of death.

There are moments when I have to just stop, remember to breathe, sit at the edge of this life, in the blue black dark, lean in to the sliver of gray moon and listen to the pitch of pain boiling over, bursting from the seams of these worn and splitting pavements, these broken walks, these bitter days, and gather up what little bit of rolling light there is colored in the corner of my eyes with the rest of the tears.

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Categories: Writing

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