adventures in dysthymia

Thursday, July 16, 2015

Awry, a poem


I have become a bit awry,
leaning off to the one side
as though growing slowly toward
an imaginary sun.

One would not even notice, most
of the time, but there it is —
off-center, bent so slightly, ever
so, and by what unseen hand?

Might each twig that is twisted, given
time, yet curve back on itself,
find a destined way upward
from its birthright of the soil?

Let me sleep and in the darkness
untwine my self, dream into truth.
I am but a bit awry,
after all. Only a bit.

Stephen Brooke ©2015

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