Book Report
The words crumble into sand
before I can cement their meaning.
I’ll never see the finished product.
Whether a post-modern mansion, a tower rising past the clouds
or a penitentiary, it shall remain a puzzle I no longer want to solve.
My mind is fractured from trying to sweep the grains together
and assemble a stable structure without a pattern; I'm hungry
with an appetite that can’t be sated with sour crumbs buried in debris.
* Roberta Swetlow attempts to make sense of life from Regina, Saskatchewan, with assistance and frustration from her husband, cat, and adult offspring.
This is a lovely piece of writing 🙂
Thanks very much. I'm sorry if you related to the experience of reading a book that was highly praised only to be horrified instead of informed or uplifted, but I appreciate your approval.
Roberta
Ohh nono, there was nothing like that. It is simply lovely 🙂
Very nice poem!