MD Kerr

Detours

from Anachronism Ψ

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The shortest routeís a ruler-line
of fifty miles between two points,
between two cores, but only mine
can feel the dislocating joints
of staying still: my days are full
of fighting that elastic pull..

The shortest route is clicking Ďsendí.
My coded flowers fill your screen,
unfold the truths the gods defend
and light the fires we stole. The scene
I didnít dream repeats each day:
an empty inbox. Silent grey..

The shortest routeís to conjure dreams.
We pace the paths and tangled grass;
on leafless trees the winter gleams.
I say it all. You speak. We pass
beyond our words. The moments steep.
I walk my numbered days asleep..

I have to move. I flail, a fish,
denied the tides and untold deep,
resisting that the Fatesí own wish
might onward, endless, hopeless creep.
Through all my detours, still, I know:
the shortest routeís despair. Itís slow.