As I lie awake knowing that the sun is dry.

That my hands were tied.

That the soft air found inside

The vaulted bars of lungs in you.

The misty panting of H2O and CO2

Was enough to flatter me again once more.

For a chained wrist encore.

But how will we break fast from losing,

Unwind our choosing,

and make sense of all the lies we twine.

My name is Untitled Document.

I am empty. Could be filled or could not be filled.

I am just waiting to be typed on, claimed.

I’ll start the bidding at 50 cents per word.

Okay.

40 cents per word?

35 cents?

15?

1 cent. Only 1 cent per word.

I offer you many different fonts and tools, I have a massive color scheme, and auto correct.

Still.

1 cent?

Do you know that I have never been written on ever in my life!

You are getting a piece of untyped, never refurbished, and I receive updates to make your typing experience absolutely fabulous.

I am worth more than 1 cent!

2 cents?

Sold.

(This is a reverse poem, read from top to bottom then bottom to top.)

“Morning,” again said Mr. Sumbody

As I think about the playground and my small buddy

The distance between the big hand and small on the clock

Is it too soon to start to wonder or not,

Whether the weather will be enough to smile and play

Or will it be grey

“It will be a cool day.” afraid I did say

I created it again in my head

A day to remember the Daisy that was dead.

#mourningincircles #prose. #neveragain #oxymoron