Flight In Red

Flight In Red
Art by Norman E. Masters




Sometimes




Why do I sometimes
feel like roadkill,
splattered, run over and
trampled by the day?

Why do I sometimes
feel like a lost
three year old
trying to find my way
through a sea of legs
while my body tries
to remember
how to breathe?

Why do I sometimes
feel like a specimen
in its jar of formaldehyde
on a dusty and sunlit shelf,
referenced by a footnote
in an article here and there?

Why do I sometimes
lose my balance as the sand
beneath my feet gets
pulled back into the sea
and I fall helpless
into what love creates?

Why do I sometimes weep
at the beauty of you?

Zen Oleary
February 26, 2004




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