Half Buried Bow

Stuck in the mud as the waters swirl towards the nadir.

Your legs churn up and down, the sluggishness of nightmares come to life.

Tick, tick, tick.

The metronome providing life for the waltz you’ve suddenly found yourself in.

All so you can forget.

Painted pictures that are really mirrors of devils upon the horizon, waving frantically because they just need help changing their tire and honestly, it is the right thing to do.

I’d usually say “Unmask, Unmask” but nobody cares.

Another whisper on the wind.


©Ramon Sturdivant


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