Stages of Grief

I left my heart in Philadelphia,

My five cent girl,

Left with the air heavy like cream

An empty stomach and emptier pockets

Like my burdens, aching,

Encasing the black bitterness

That ever threatened

The consumption of the masses;

A ship in a bottle

Rocking in the abyss.

The light’s embrace,

And the warmth is contained

In the safeness of a home

Where there should be none.

In the comfort of creases,

And ambient sounds.

Like a clock where time

Ceases to live

To enjoy the caffeinated pause

That only night releases us to do;

We pause, and shift comfortably;

Spectator’s to the vastitude’s erosion of light.

We are the cogs to a well maintained machine,

Perpetually folding in on one another,

Forced into waves of collaboration

Away from the clamor of youthful, superficial endeavors,

Lost to the wrinkles of a sun fed face,

Sprinkled with the crumbs of a flattened plate;

We will dance

And sing

In the silence of our conformity,

In bated breaths,

In a coffee trance,

We live

And feel our lowest lows in solidarity of one another.