I seem to have started a collection
of all the breakable things:
various hearts and dinner plates
files of fingernails and soft white skin
a suitcase full of appointed hours
a ribbon bound stack of promissory notes
words so delicate I preserve under glass
silence kept sterile in a vacuum sealed host.
I seem to have started a collection,
a fragile roster without defined end.
Spirits and skeletons will find protection
in soft cotton heaven Styrofoam angels defend.
For everything that breaks there is a designated place,
if I find every one and keep them in here,
then one day I will be safe.
Gary Priest writes poetry, novels and short stories. He can often be found on Scribophile.