Mindflow by Frances Piché

I learned once more to dance
between the cracks, lean into the wind,
to glue back the tattered wings that ridicule flight,
to be a gypsy of the middle way.

My tangled heart still whispers her name,
with love’s burden striking out at loss.
I sit alone with its intrusive blade,
above my forehead criss-crossed.

The river had run through her,
she was caught in cross-hairs
by some organic coup d’état,
turning my days to robotic entrails.

Words strive to attain critical mass,
a molten lava from bruised lungs calling.
Time does not heal,
we are heroes or fools at its bidding.

The mirror empties out each day –
we have no power to ambush time.
The river speaks,
mind flows.

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