A Homonym in Time

The weight of
our waste makes
up the waist of our wait.

You put on the
brakes but
the only break was

apparently a sudden stop.

You said I would not but
the battle was for naught
and now I’m all tied up
in knots

until the notches in
my noose get
caught on
the cot I loosely
cry myself to
sleep upon.

And until I’m made Don of
the soldiers who awaken
each dawn, 
the foreward of
moving forward begins
with a mere piece of
the peace I need

to find.

Until then I’m righted by
what is written, 
stubbing my toes on
the words I’ve  kept in tow,

leaving flowered
ribbons on all my beaus,

second hand
wares exchanged for
someone warmer to wear

on corners we used to loiter.

I’m winded but winding up
my metaphors,
homonyms of something still worth
fighting the fourth wall for.

I keep looking for
the sun but I’m yet another
son of darkness and it’s forever

altered my altared form.

3 thoughts on “A Homonym in Time

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