Physical Rinse

Catching snowflakes

like brushing dandruff from my hair

Will the moisture from my brown eyes

ever be enough?

 

The voice hears me

but it reacts in silence

Or is it that I cannot hear

over the fear that delights me?

 

The Pen talks to the Paper

No matter the cover though

It all tastes the same way

 

My hand is the net that catches

cathartic reality

Soon, it will be over

 

But will glee stomp out indecision

before my aching hands turn cold?

Was it I who cleared the path

or some unknown

bidding adieu

like the chosen lucky few who

found a sharper shovel

 

Let me walk on the frozen water

to thaw it on my way

to that somewhere

Catching snowflakes

 

in my life-preserver