by PAULA
Typical, really
Always looking for a north
South street on a one-way runway
Catalysts opening my way to the top
when it’s not like that at all
creating something special
out of an unquenchable
inner circle
an unquenchable empty room
always open
always a turnabout in
rush hour
and
when the smoke has cleared, breathe in
the demoralizing prospect of
a modicum of solace
that
all hope isn’t lost
lying to yourself once again
blackbird, fly.
You took those broken wings
glue, and
mortar, and
brick and all
and in the light of the dark,
black night, your
eyes shine
so rise.
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