It drops the edge out of me
Silence and methods and
Misunderstanding
I don’t know the cost
But I know the me
The truth in me
And it comes out in droves
That burst upon parkades
And spills into pastures
To edges of your existence
To be forgotten
Muted
Stumbled upon and missed
And closed.
A box being closed
Yet so delicately wrapped
And ornately carved
It is almost fit
It should rest closed
Yet each edge
Reminds me I’m still here
Resembling
A fifty year old maple
With buttons on my shoes.