Well, But In Time...
eyes, bitter brown,
skin, soiled tan.
Narrow becomes the tunnel of my days,
repetitive ritual between the sun and moon.
I expand inside my shell,
stretch my physical self,
as the coals of desire grow cold
and my mind contracts into itself.
I'm drawn with too black a pen,
written in too thick a script,
on paper too thin to hold air.
So I look beyond the border
and peek over the margins.
I pull into me what I've lost within,
hoping to jump start motivation
and fill up on inspiration.
Popping happiness twice a day.
February 11, 2003
Tressa Lee Breen