There was never enough time to become who I wanted.
It seems as though I have been filtered by the day and by the night, The ritual of seasons It seems as though I am not afforded the luxury of moving forward.
Grapple with me, let me heal you I have found that I am less inclined to take my own advice the better it is, but I wish that weren’t true. If I prayed, I’d ask for eyes set to the horizon. If only I weren’t caught up in the traces of it.
So that I don’t forget to feel, I inhabit my ghost. One who ride the tide at its highest, Grazing melon yellow fingers across each star. Occasionally I pluck them. Only then do I wonder if I have a right, see, I ask not for permission.
I’m saying, I play god in the same breath as I swallow dirt, For I know, at least, I am no one winded woman.
M. La Colla Linquist is a bipolar poet from Lawrence, Kansas, currently living in Italy.