sometimes I don't know how I got there

those eyes
could open a man's soul,
like poking holes
in a wet sheet
of tissue paper,
and yet,
like Icarus,
there was no where
else to stare,
no corner to which
I could repair,
and collect myself:
I was a trophy,
planted on a shelf,
and so softly,
she kept me
all to herself;
disregarded,
broken-hearted,
I lingered on,
if only to just once
hear again
her song --
the soft, sweet wail
of a stray cottontail,
bounding through meadows,
watching shadows,
needing love,
but searching for safety --
the tune that captured me,
engulfed my reason,
and left my logic
rumpled in a pile
in the corner,
the dusty corner where
forgotten things go;
she finally released me,
in a garden of stones
that offered no answers,
sent out no polite smiles,
but only asked why
I was among them,
naked, consumed,
and crying.



March 14, 2010.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.