every morning

Stitched together, with two coarse hands,

from rags, and rugged, a rag doll

No smile, yet smug, or scheming perhaps.

Girl or boy, no matter at all.

-

She walks and strays, forever lost,

one hand in the hole, that one in her chest.

Lost I said, but mood aloft.

Lost I said, but ne'er distressed.

-

Girl, did I say? A boy today!

Still hollow, still empty, still searching each year.

A boy, a boy, and he's on the way,

a feeling, a hunch, is drawing him near.

-

No tears or cries, or gasps of surprise.

Something is wrong, though it has no name.

A stillness, or dullness, she can't vocalise.

So on she goes, are others the same?

-

Every morning, he rushes ahead

Every sundown, she pauses for breath

Every evening, he picks at loose threads

Every night, she puts him to bed

-

Passers by lessen and lessen,

warm and real, and hearts pumping.

Their faces exchange a range of expression,

"That's what I want, that's what I'm chasing!"

-

On he tread, four fingers clutching,

'til came another, all frays and tatters.

"Are you like me? Do you know what I'm missing?"

"Same as me, you have all that matters."

-

The stranger went on to appease the glum soul,

"That pit is your own, you fill it yourself,

with black and white, purple, and yellow.

It fits, I promise, I did it myself!"

-

In they went, one by one,

to no rejoicing, or rushing of glee.

But day by day, as the journey went on,

a feeling grew stronger, a feeling of me

-

Every morning, they rushed ahead

Every sundown, they paused for breath

Every evening, they picked at loose threads

Every night, they went to bed