Pieces of the Past

Kiel M. Gregory
Pieces of the Past

Hate and fear, mostly.
Virtually always misplaced,
misdirected.
Misdirected hostility.

Then, misdirected love—
love distorted,
unappreciated, unreturned—
pebbles in puddles
that provide no rippling wake.

The vibrations of silence,
sad screams and laughter.
Soft stones,
hard water.
Needles that pierce the surface
like straws of hay in a tornado.
I rushed through white lines
while you chased a dragon
and eventually lost the race.

Insults that hit like punches
forgotten to be pulled.
Disillusion.
Mismanaged methods to mend.
Dissolution.

Then, a prison of the mind,
ever shrinking.
Self-caged and
lonely,
then alone.

Screaming at the sky.
Stars in the night—
my friends—eternal and
numerously infinite.

There’s never not room for me
way up there;

a place where I can supernova and not wink out quietly.