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No Place To Dream - Fear

Poetry By: Gracey65
Poetry



Poetry on Fear and the mind


Submitted:Feb 1, 2013    Reads: 10    Comments: 1    Likes: 0   


The breath,
not suffocated, not damp,drawn into the lungs years ago,
before crossing the threshold, before coming in -
that same breath still hurts,
sometimes panting, sometimes shivering.
That is why her ribs crack, she thinks rising.
Coughing, moaning, she gets to work,
alive through that pain. Years ago, once,
she found herself besieged,back to the wall,
in the last corner.Having driven her there,
you suddenly turned generous, said:"Why stay in the corner?
When the whole house is yours!"Then she emerged from the corner,
spread herself out,was absorbed into that whole big
house of which no corner was hers.
After that, no one felt uneasy except she herself.
Like the heart beating of itself, the blood
running at its own pace,her existence itself became
that house and its people.
Early morning, she was the tasty foam of the scented toothpaste, then
melted like butter on the hot bread, soaking into each layer,
turned, ground between, sweetening the teeth; in the plate's corner
the pungent pickle, on the tongue's tip
stinging a moment; on the washed clothes the shine of the iron,
which by evening will be erased from the folds;
tomorrow morning;she will again begin at the beginning,
till evening, repeating the same process of being herself -
this house and its people.As long as she is no one knows that she is.
All are in a hurry, all have somewhere to go.
Nor can it be said that she wanted anything else.
This is what she wanted but in a somewhat different way.
Often she has cried out, afraid, turned, ground between, sweetening
the teeth.between the scented gargles being spat out, "Look, be careful,
Not that way, this way!"Her son has looked, dismayed,
at her face, sweatsoaked. Stopping between gargles,
her husband has asked:"Did you say something?"
and has not awaited an answer.Neither is worried. "Nothing" is all
she will say, or else"Have a little more."It is merely by chance
that she is here in your lives,more than a need, extra
necessary, yet empty of the sense of being needed
A gadget that works on its own --anyone could have been in her place.
This is the only way she knows to be, fears to take the risk of not being,
does not search for"a somewhat different way."Who will tell her,
snatch from her this small consolation -Air trapped for centuries
in ruins, in caves,grows stale, poisoned, dangerous.
As long as she does not know,she continues to live in the illusion
that she has saved inside her one fresh breath
which, even now,knocks against her ribcage.
Early morning, she was the tasty foam of the scented toothpaste, then
melted like butter on the hot bread,soaking into each layer,
turned, ground between, sweetening the teeth; in the plate's corner
the pungent pickle,on the tongue's tip stinging a moment;
on the washed clothes the shine of the iron,
which by evening will be erased from the folds;
tomorrow morning; she will again begin
at the beginning, till evening, repeating
the same process of being herself - this house and its people.
As long as she is no one knows that she is.
All are in a hurry, all have somewhere to go
The rest of the story takes no turn, finds no way -
that will happen which happen -the result of cheating oneself -
the self breaks from the self, one's picture keeps
growing dimmer.Asleep in your world,
she woke in a dream. Then she saw a transparent curtain
of rain on the window. Far, very far, a dim mountain.
For a while she could not make out where she was -
this body lying on the bed near the window,
looking at the mountain, or there, far away, among the trees,
with the birds like the breath rising, on a climbing fieldpath,
a shadow growing dim, about to become invisible.
Startled, she sat up, and, since then,she even fears sleep.
As of now, she has a house,and a fear.No place for deams there




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