fractures.
hairline fractures are hard to see unless
the right light hits at
just the right angle-
then I can tell you might
split in half at any moment.
I have to say this isn’t a surprise;
after all, on the outside
you are far from perfect.
the blue of your waistcoat is
slipping onto your white socks
you are undefined, leaning there
against that pale, half-painted tree-trunk, and
your face is collapsing into itself
the way wax melts and tires implode-
you are becoming more grotesque
each time I look at you.
yet despite your deformities, like
a little prince you are proud
of your dim colours
and your small brown shoes leaking
onto the non-green-grass of the
scaly ground
matching the feathered hat in your hand
the hair shining
on your un-round head.
and all along your middle, a thin black line
almost indistinguishable
from the folds of your shirt
tells me that you might
split in half at any moment
when a crack in your existence
swallows you up.
. Odd thing is, I was actually writing about a little figurine when I wrote this, LMAO! It was an exercise in a Creative Writing book I borrowed recently. And yet somehow it turned into a poem about a person...
