Planets
The planets
are humble tonight,
turning
eyes to a blood-red moon
and all
its superfluous ways.
A
looping-out of happenstance,
the
hills we stride, paths we take,
silver-stitched
in waves, a blanket
of multi-hue
haphazard squares.
You can
decide to strike it dumb,
this
despair dripping out of you,
wearing you
out from the inside.
Do you
feel fettered in your skin?
We clear
cupboards for pictures strewn
of kith
and kin, and every act of sin
you pour
out on your own small stage,
speak of
things turned insular and bare.
Kids race
marbles that blink in the gutter,
peer
into colours twisting as they slide.
Fortune
will take a turn of the table,
separate
silent strength from numbness,
under
the glare of this struck-silver moon.
Copyright
Vickie Johnstone, September 28, 2020
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