I want to stumble
in and out
of consciousness,
missing every window
of opportunity
that has the audacity
to raise its curtains
like the lids
of my eyes.
I am a constant blunder
that the butcher
cuts in clumps
of misunderstandings,
bleeding every nuance
of anything
even close
to harmony.
I need to be a list
of listless limpness,
corroding softly
the marrow of your insides.
Luck greets
with empty eyes,
and lurches forward
on broken feet.
You're anything but airy-
just the whimsy
without the whimsical.
I pick at my loose threads constantly,
envying the steady mess you're not.
You must be appealing
in every petal
of your bloom,
charming in your coordination.
Your delicate dexterity
is a glory in itself;
the neatness
of
restraint.
Author notes
Grace
All along I said I know no enemies
A contest entry
- grace by serval.
300 points, ended October 19, 15 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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it veers a little abstract, which is nice. and the whole of the piece stays pretty neatly in its theme, but "bleeding every nuance/of anything/even close/to harmony" didnt quite fit.
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Thank you
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