Vox Populi


A pencil scratches this paper
with periods and dashes.
But a dash and a period
so short and sudden,
their charcoal soul can
hardly draw a thought.
A shapeless thought,
a weightless nothing
scratched on this paper
like an ethereal door,
half way opened or closed.
A closed ethereal door
like all closed doors is a wall,
but as it grows back open…
its half way shadow
draws down a bridge.
Shapeless, weightless bridge
with a charcoal soul.
An arching penciled thought
above the wells of hate.
Suspended by ropes
of short and sudden hope.
A mindful hope daring to cross
from my reason to your eyes,
reaching out to your side
seeking forgiveness for our past.
For our shared imperfect past
that keeps on pulling us back.
But this suspended hope hovers
in the future of our past,
because the future is after all
just a thought beyond.
An arching penciled thought
above the wells of hate,
like a weightless bridge
made out of half opened doors,
scratched on this paper
with dashes and dots.


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