I listen to my mind
like a warden watches stalwart
a dangerous inmate
wary of hidden forks,
of smiling hate.

Like a gardener plucks
wayward blooms
those masquerading weeds
with flowery plumes.

I filch thoughts
that pass through the generosity
of my ever ajar mind,
like a frantic:
this came from the wound of the world,
this came from the aftershock scar,
this came from the splinter of a rock hurled,
this is mine,
this is mine,
this is mine.

01/06/2013

Posted on 01/07/2013
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