Denise R. Weuve

Ink Damage and Other Permanent Stains

What Those I love Fear

a decade in which their fist are forgotten
a year in which yelling is muted by lotus garden meditations
a month in which believing their truths is not an option or a religion i have been baptized into without faith
a week in which loathing lays down to sleep for a van winkle nap
a day in which joy is not manufactured like rivets that turn a gear stretching a dolls smile
an hour in which only my memories can be retold to a riveted audience that crunches on popcorn as they question why I stay
a minute in which I can catch words and throw them to the floor so they shatter-cheap ceramic plates
a second in which I listen to my heart bringing it up to my ear like a ticking watch
The moment I follow it

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