Growing limbs anew is an arduous task, you are
bestowed with a pair of new shoes that don’t jive, hope
urges you on, but you are flooded and flowing and flooding
in more than one tributary at the same time,
you put one foot after another in the mist, gathering enough rubble
and stones and leaves and breath, and then
there happens a moment, should have been just another moment,
but is not,
a chuckle and a smirk, amalgamate, spiraling into a guffaw for two,
charging up the vacuum, a roll of giggles and cheap thrills,
and music, my prodigal son, returns, heralding the onset of acceptance of
of this so-called thing which poets
oft take it upon themselves to rhyme about.
.whole again. torn and cross-stitched back together but
complete, and melodious, all the same.
I solemnly swear this poem was inspired by the prompt “the seven-year itch” for the last day of BarAthon. It has been fun folks! See you around.