It’s never you, is it? Everything I see
drifts away from me in small increments of time.
Hands are empty.

Yesterday the wind tossed my red hair
toward the sky. I thought of what a tyrant
hope can be. I fell asleep, mascara staining
the pillow with unspoken words, idle tears.

I do nothing but sit here & think
who I might have been. I remember
a lake house, all that crumbled & fell

away, from otherwise capable minds.
A piano I never learned to play
arises in a vision of startled anger, defeat.

I know you wouldn’t care to rectify anything.
Least of all, me. What purpose would that
serve you anyway. There are so many
others worth your time.

I walk out of the building, back into the wind.
The streets & trees mock me. I have
nowhere to run.

-Heather Lenz

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Poet, writer, artist, publisher, editor