A Secret

“There is a dream outside. 
I am dark and imagined and 
I can’t wake up….”

I have forgotten how I write.
My voice is with the calendar,
in the cemetery,
dusting off a bottle. The sun has moved
in on this town,
drying up oranges,
turning water to dust.

Today, I am a reflection.
A left over.

The wind is locked.
My phone is dead.
People have stopped watching.
I am underground,
away from cancer and traffic.

“…and the dream is inside, too.”

Light is nothing, not even artificial.
The birds are an alarm;
God’s warning.
If someone could crush my hand with
a hammer, I could stop all this.

The world is stretching.

I want my voice back.

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7 thoughts on “A Secret

  1. Pingback: A Secret | Doug Alan

  2. staggeringly authentic and to the point….a hard hitting poem that overlooks your mention of losing your voice, because your voice is loud and clear, reaching out as a tendril of smoke to ensnare the reader….and it does all that too…

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