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July 15, 2024


By Michael Fiorito


The creaky joints that hold
The tired sides fold under their own weight.
And we stray on adrift.
The rift between right and wrong
Between joyous and forlorn
Wrinkles our foreheads.
We have scars and sores from daily wars.
And we have always been scared.
We stoop scratching our necks.
Crawling to a safe place, avoiding the pain.
The broken pieces of our hearts
Resounding, ringing, replaying.
I am eight years old, apprehending that I am me, sitting on the toilet bowl, tears streaming down my cheeks, then suddenly laugh at myself.
Was that you, too?
Twenty years later, as if in a dream, my father dies, and I am repeating over and over in my head: Where did he go, where did he go?
Where do we go?
But we don't ever come back.
We are all rushing down together.
We will all be able to lie down when our hour comes.
There will be nothing to remember.
Or forget.
No breathing.
No reaching.
The big black of nothing all around us
Unseen by dead eyes.

Article © Michael Fiorito. All rights reserved.
Published on 2018-11-12
Image(s) are public domain.
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