PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I’ve got to get so far past you the birds run out of breath.

I need to push you to the utmost of unimportants that the dust turns to dirt.

I toss filed forgotten newspaper clippings from stories told that are not here or there or where

My heart resides today.

I toss them,

Yet, find them,

Hobbling in my chest when the trash goes to the curb.

What makes the memories stay,

What makes them, be,

Stuck on the wings of breathless pigeon masquerading as doves,

Free in their flight through dusty olives groves of romantic storytellers?

What makes this teller of tales, 

Stay? 

What makes this memory, stay,

When all others 

Flitter away?

Go with him, memory bird.

Go with him, dust mites on papered tales.

Take your dirty newspaper to build a musty nest and go so far past me

You run out of breath.