The chittering of coincidence has resumed.
For the love of words,
I can only wonder how this has happened.
Refusal to see and hear
And draw the lines dot-to-dot
Is an option, but
The sinister grin lying under the exterior plane
Is the master of refusal; a face
Made of stone, immortal.

The passage of minutes courses-
A thick pulsing gore of moments
Lost to the memory of those partaking.
So many moments (I’d like to say) I wish
Belonged to another but
Those words would get caught on my tongue
If ever I attempted to try.

Coincidences breathe heavily,
Multiply in a smooth birthing; a
Genealogical tree rising, reaching
To the sky with gnarled fingers.
I could look away
(I have)
But its branches still grow.

The sinking of my heart,
My failure to re-acclimate to blindness,
The gnawing question circling my sanity
Once again
Leaves me only with a grave sigh.

Here we go again…

©Jen2012 1-4