We cloak so much of this in armor we don’t care about. -M. Taggart
I’m sitting in our home void of noise.
I know what I need to do. I’m not doing it.
I did however figure out why I was pacing
when we first moved in. Searching, feeling
the walls and pausing in doorways. The
reasoning was revealed to me in two parts.
One of which I wasn’t surprised, but the other,
was a gift waiting to be opened, and when I
did, it came along hauntingly and grew
into itself before me; as though I pulled a string
from my throat and with it came the voice of
a story that merely needed to the right to express.
There’s no rocking chair that listens
better than the one you’re sitting in.
As the four walls close in around you
bringing with them no sense of reason
while the creaking continues under the
pressure of your life; only one more,
but let this never be the last of them all.
The Irony Of It
Written by -M. Taggart
We love the cruelty of it-
the haggard faces
the bleeding souls
the ones who scream gutlessly
at their avalanche
If you’d like we can grip the iron bar-
having been placed here