The Third Bank Of The River

I loosen my hair in the wind,
writing fragments of poetry
before my last soliloquy
on this barren stage.

Some raw metaphors emerge
from my shadows like wounded
soldiers and all the moons hate me for I am
a dead muse, dragging melancholic
rhymes out of simple words, stretching
this night before I write my unadulterated confusion.

Life is nothing but a vague evidence:
I am about to cross the third bank
of the river, carrying my absurd
in a box of silence, rejecting hope
or the desire for significance.

As I lose control of the night,
being crushed by my own perplexity,
I am doomed to this incomprehensible
moment of me with myself, almost
confessing my frozen disorder.

I can no longer remain coherent,
I can no longer continue my 7-to-5
placid existence.
Close the curtains, please.

Karla Bardanza

http://asmoonsewsthesatinstars.blogspot.com
http://ourpoetrycafe.blogspot.com (with my friend Cinda Berard)