Sugar
by Ramsés Dávila-Luna at The Writer’s Cavern
The grasp slips quickly when you hold sand. Feelings stay in the tree rings, but the branches eventually let go of the leaves. Believe in the past to become grand. To the neighbors, the stories felt like buried treasure. Once you get home, you become lesser. When, by your tiny window, a butterfly spreads its wings to show its spots. Even the silence nudges you to fold. Flex on a stage with an audience as your clay. Your side didn’t pan out, so you fried the lack of replies and turned them into pumpkin pie. Become your own knight with sword and shield so the castle never feels far away. When the truth never sets itself free, fairy tales win. In the chamber, rosemary grows past December, but my bread decays. A water of life that feeds on what’s taken away and what remains. There’s no glory in the present. Fixed to the streets and their beats, the real struggle is to hold out. Puddles of muddy reflections kick in the second-guessing. Insides get roasted when you simply coast and boast about the noises. Just as your eyes rise, the sundown folds them. Before the event, there was no reason to howl. Lawn chairs near the lakes for the buzzards to rest their selves. The blues only listened to store, then let go. New pillars formed in the waters like remembrance stones. When the power was swept away, it was too late to spend. By then, I had worn out those around me. When they tried to turn, I brought them back to live on my roads. My eternity didn’t feel so long! On confused wires, I sang alone, waiting for the crows. Yet in time the tribe left to eat their own bleeding fruit. They never forgot, but they saw the real me rotting in hurt. Others stopped caring for their own good when I couldn’t move on, all because I wanted to feel the rush of my old sugar.
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