image from taleofronin.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I reached into the river of my mind, palm upturned like a beggar, and pulled out~ not a coin, but a rusted key that fit no lock I owned. What was I thinking? Perhaps the same thought that turns a moth to flame~ not light, but burning. The arithmetic of longing always carries forward a remainder. What was I thinking? Maybe it was the way the train whispered destinations I’d never reach, or how the moon, that night, hung like an unpaid bill. What was I thinking? The answer curled at the edges, a photograph left in rain~ half desire, half shadow, all of it dissolving into the ink of hindsight.
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
