Wednesday, March 14, 2012

Fragmented, atlest I think that's the title.

So, I write poems now. I also bought new hiking boots. But mostly this post is about this poem. It is this poem.


Every thing is placed,
resting upon another,
Both forces

A book to a shelf.
A shelf to a book.
To the pages, to the shelf, to the floor,
 to the air, to your eyes reading the ink of
the pages
to the book
to the shelf. 

All forced to a halt--
Frozen against one another,
never fully touching.

Every thing can be broken down,
into smaller and lesser increments.
Not solid,
although they appear to be

A hand flipping, grasping the tangible pages.
Pages of particles of a once tree
are molecules, are atoms
are electrons, protons, and neutrons
are broken down forever further.

Yet, our reality does not allow
this to be explored

I place my foot
atop the cold smooth wood of
the floor
pushes vertically against my warm tired foot.

Every thing is placed,
resting upon another.
My foot, the floor
lie side by side,
like angry lovers.
No permeation.
Forces fighting.
Forever a defense.
A Balance?

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