The lines, the shapes of continents, form the contours of my day
The depths of oceans, bones in skulls, moments caught to play.
I ready self, I psych it up, I capture ambered moments
But all lined up (along my shelves) it comes down to atonements.
Instead I grapple, I find words, I leave myself behind
And find the shapes, the lines emerge, not knowledgeable, but kind.
I pour it out, curled on the couch, list failures academic
He steadies me, refills instead, the change in me systemic.
6 comments:
misha this is lovely. it all comes down to atonements... yes, an really, only the One atonment truly matters, yes?
i love this little poem, so glad you shared!
poured out and refilled...that is a beautiful picture...
Love this rhythm, and the clever rhymes. Well done.
I ready self, I psych it up, I capture ambered moments
But all lined up (along my shelves) it comes down to atonements.
that, my favorite stanza, but it all left me breathless... what a brilliant view of baptism, my dear misha. how glad i am you linked... you write.so.well. xoxoxo
Awwww . . . He steadies and refills . . . beautiful!
Thank you for sharing!
This is my first time joining Imperfect Prose and you. :)
this is really beautiful.
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