(out of a lack of self-discipline)

Standard

the unfortunate trope of invisibility, revisited :

she stepped on a porcelain mind
too fragile to find
but it tore like gold leaf papers
and it smelled like pine:
wood box.

she saw the footsteps from the doorfront
to the backdoor.
they were a man’s footprints-
too large-
filled with hubris
false hopes.

she stepped on a porcelain mind,
the clean cutting away of
a dream,
and placed the pieces on a
pile of papers,
so they could be saved
from the shamefulness of the floor.

it is 2 in the morning now,
and she is sitting on top of the rubble in the
trashed house,
the old house.
it wasn’t destroyed more than an hour ago
but it seems like an eternity.

they haven’t got a clue who did it,
and maybe that’s because it was a person who wasn’t there.

the footprints turned out to be a mirage
that everyone was seeing
they were snowy footprints,
melted.
too late

i knew a man once who said he could
disappear, i mean
scatter his atoms around at will and
dissipate into the air.
i checked his story once.
he was right.

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry

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