Time
for when you wake up
dreaming
of all the poems
you never wrote.
The ashes from your
one last drag
falling from your fingers.
Blue
your veins
untouched by air
Your life
crawling inside
turning red
only when
kissed by atmosphere,
searing iron
to oxide.
I’d rather be
a litany
against the fears
of cruelty
than a smear of salty
misery
on discarded
tissue.
Loneliness
a weary way
but wild and free
to walk alone
The burden
ephemeral
but real
A weighted chest.
You direct your hand
back to your heart
but struggle to put
your finger
on
what you really
want.
~Anna Chlewicki Lightfoot
