Poem: December 17, 2019

Stolen Words
A poem made with 20 words I took from 20 poems.

It takes a bit of wading
in cold waters, a bit of
slogging along until
your feet are numb, to
finally see the futility
of the slogging, and

it takes some time amid
the shoulder-high and
steely stalks and leaves,
making slow and quarrelsome
progress and being torn
to rags to suddenly know
you can remove yourself
from your own enclosure,

and one can spend a good
bit of ticking time behind
a curtain, uttering sad,
imagined lines and looking
for the part between the
black, heavy velvet walls,
that are poured like darkness
from the rafter to the floor,
before one enters left,
emblazoned in stage light
to cross to center stage
and take a chair like Banquo,
justified and righteous and
born of a type of witchcraft,

and it can require a long bit
of fitful sleep to wake to
the cool and silent gifts
of one's own forgiveness,
and in so doing, be soothed.