We are all broken bits

left over from some end,

doorways leading

to empty rooms.

We run while we wait

for something to move,

everyday a barter of

quench and thirst.

Sycophant you are,

I’m always giving in

to occasions

with too much

in my mouth

to speak.

No space for tongue

or meaning,

no room

for reason & rebuilding.

We are all broken bits

left over from flawed beginnings.

They said we never stood a chance.

© 2013 Melissa Fry Beasley. All Rights Reserved.

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