Written by James Christopher Sheppard
I’m ok being alone?
at times like treasure
at times like bones
and hoarded like a newspaper from the day I was born.
Pointlessly wasting time,
Is this hiding?
I cannot be seen, heard, felt.
My page, however, remains
for your information.
Powered, perhaps, by the wind farm I saw on my walk today,
Miles off shore, white against dense light gray. Almost invisible. Mostly unnoticed.
Her face still sits as it did two years ago,
next to her name,
written largely and proud as if she is announcing herself
like the rest of us.
Only the page is now filled with ‘I miss you’s’
and has become the only gateway
for us to her
As if it has out-lived her
As the wind farm will out-live us
and keep our pages of pictures and perceptions there, for all to see,
of our fleshy bodies
and regardless of our distorted realities.