brittle

tiny tears in woven strands
callouses in weathered hands
harsh realities here to haunt again 

don’t break
just bend 

wound round the clock and spent
bones creaking in awkward places
spaces, renovated, up for rent
a change, a chance
that upward glance 

just cracks
not crushed 

cheeks tanned, and slightly flushed
words haphazardly falling, hastily gushed 

just crushed 

bleak, weakness
not built to withstand
swaying in the breeze
this way and that, then back again

*     *     *

It’s been awhile since I’ve done poetry. I suppose it’s nice to be back at it. Can’t seem to help that it somehow always ends up tinged with an ounce of melancholy. Is happy poetry possible? Perhaps not for me. But I should try some time, maybe. 

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