My face is a cracked line that floats
between flurry and decline,
squeezed open by promises unkept
by imprints of messiness
by the after shocks of joy.
Facial skin spotted,
the sun's minted pay off,
No resistance to the screen time of now.
My profile settling like ash in a bin
with too many things left undone
with no anchored rules of ritual.
My face touched by your hands
shuts out addled history
shuts out combustible fear.
My face held in your hands allows me to think
I could out run fire.
Poem composed: July 2020
Received an NA in Strand (17)
Copyright © Brian Sambourne | Year Posted 2020
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