MORE By Christopher Fields More Why seek anything more than a life that slips frictionlessly by? I want more. I want a life that lashes; I want a life that grinds and scrapes, that prunes away weak pieces exposing lurid truths beneath. I want road rash-mottled arms proclaiming how closely I knew my way. When I go, I want my body to be a map, every worn inch a symbol. My skin, my scars, my story. Verge the …….office …………..is ……………….my hell though ………………………………………strangely …………….I leave home the cloven hooves …….that fill ……my fancy …………………….shoes when ……….I …..am ………sleeping Prosocial Perspiration percolates when I think how coffee-dates and meetings play along the fringes of my life.Elocution calculated might construct a reputation, electrify some peers and win their love and adoration–but I’ll never say a word, and while I daydream, little talks in streets and bars and coffeeshops stock friendly wealth by penny-drops.Just as lonely people never seem to find each other like they’re content to let living lie,and wonder later, middle-aged, in the graveyard of their friendships how it is they came to die. Amplification Trade your future in for a past, the heaviest one you can find or make. The ones who don’t know better let the lightness of their burdens assure them the future is theirs and brighter, eyes always on the light at the end of the tunnel but nobody told them that a ray of light is massless that even though some people will burn right through you, just by the force of what sparked them, the rest just hit their mark and scatter leaving no more a trace than dust. About the Author: Chris Fields is a physical therapist residing in western Massachusetts. His poetry nucleates around single resonant words and phrases, usually while driving. He advises pulling over if like inspiration strikes you. His work may be found in Blast Furnace. |
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