The Remains

Like little birds startled by crumbs we scatter

for cover when the big words come,

the ones stripped of any art, the ones that singe,

mostly avoided, successfully dodged those lumps of dry bread.

 

Keep truth abay with a light swathe, a gauzy cloak of

half-heard, half-uttered little drones of

nothingness, conventional riffs of jazz, too polite to improvise.

A necklace of platitudes we spin for each other:

barbs disguised in vanilla puddings

to be uncovered by the archaeologists of

our dead love.

 

4 thoughts on “The Remains”

  1. Marina Sofia – This is beautifully done! A really eloquent look at the way we use platitudes and the way we (don’t) face the difficult stuff.

  2. Marina Sofia, I wonder how your mind thinks of these things put together so nicely, so perfectly. How do you think of this! Like barbs disguised in vanilla puddings.
    I hate to say, I have spoken those barbs in my life. And received some too.
    Very good poem.

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