w.c. 105 approximately

[riotheclown]

Bring the fire
to the place
between the leaving
and the arriving;
To the moment
when I should have said the other thing.

Bring the fire to the remnants of the broken silence
where it bleeds light
coughs love
and farts
second chances.

That spark I held
feels like a lost tooth
and hope
soars like a lead plum.

Fish
swim like soiled thongs
across a mirror
in a room occupied
by no one.

My madness eats its own head.

I wish
it wasn't so
but the beggars
stole my horses and rode off.

All I have are condolence cards
written
in Spanish.
I could learn Spanish if I weren't so dumb.


Besides missing the cut off for the entry and all I am pleased with this.

You don't know how I dodged a really depressing poem about regret. I think it is now rather funny and clever and not about saying the wrong thing to a friend who killed herself but saying the wrong thing to a guy(s), which is much lower on the scale of depressing (although the scale is reversed in depression lower is higher so it should be higher?).

See, the fire has become a sexual reference (between the leaving and the coming...get it?)

the beggars rode off... if wishes were horses... oh never mind.

The last line is true.