Silas Thorne's Journal

Perhaps a part of me and mine eye's ear his walking,
butting the tarmac with footfalls his head
full of the figureless weight of thoughts
unable to separate the YouWe&I of others' leavings.

Rabid he, face shaking phlegm at my comments
slams a book on my intentions, stamping them dry
with his Isms, a black-suited Santa
throwing forth names like candy for children.

(A pile under books he's read before, I,
under a pile of desked cell-scrawlings;
a crab with pincers blunted by the rocks
waiting for the tide to come in and be free.)

© Silas Thorne