Featured Poem: Calendars

by penman

Numbers inked on a page
they write the mornings
in muted stale print.

For I can see each digit
and it doesn’t sting,
doesn’t stab in any way,
but, ah, Tuesday,
was the time my life felt shook,
my heart was ripped by some fear,
love lingered in a promise
then vanished into a fog.

Can’t forget those ripping scars
from every second spent
feeling the power of tremors
when I walked into a dream
with panting dread
because it wasn’t just a dawn
it was terror, love, moving and gripping
claws of encounter
that dug deep into my brain.

I might walk away from a month’s dates,
but never from their voice,
how it speaks into my core
by a song I can never forget
even if the numbers have
no special meaning.

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About lowkiespeaks

I am a poetess, a mother-to-be, a pround woman, and stubborn beyound reason. View all posts by lowkiespeaks

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