The etymologist finds the deadest word to have been once a brilliant
picture.
Language is fossil poetry. As the limestone of the continent
consists of
infinite masses of the shells of animalcules, so language is
made up of images,
or tropes, which now, in their secondary use, have long
ceased to remind us of
their poetic origin.
-Ralph Waldo Emerson

Sunday, February 12, 2012

To Be Sixteen Again


One bullet ended it all.  Split apart
Two marriages
Three families. Made siblings grow up faster.
For what?  A wish to go back in time? To erase the last
Five years? To start fresh at
Six-teen?
Impossible.  But you knew that. You felt that. You lived
that but you couldn’t.
5 dead-end jobs in a year and a half, 4 failed attempts at redemption, 3 failed relationships- 
all desperate, all numb,
2 missed calls- frantic.
telling.
1
bullet. 

Acrostic, but with numbers?  Otherwise lyrical. 
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