The flood
You lost hope when the rains came in,
tempest-torn, emotion-drawn, and day
became a speck too far away. Photos
and memories glued in suitcases of old,
taken by the sea like driftwood. You write
pages torn in dissaray, stolen & resold,
while sentences play out til they drop,
set loose in times you can’t stand in,
the field too vast, the pit too deep to crack.
You need a ticket, but you can’t play
cards that lack their heads. The director
watched your role unravel, cues dripped
from stages. The ark turned its back.
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, March 7, 2021
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