Stolen Thoughts



Dad used my sister’s plate, but she didn’t notice. His cooking is unmistakable. Somehow, it can’t be forgotten. Those thoughts, we keep with us. It has always been like this.

Listen to Diane Young. Rest your arms on the concrete. The pulse of things to come quickens. Your mind is your own, but it is easy to forget. The worst part of being a dreamer is having your goals unmet.

The faded pink coat bristled in the snow. Would like a flat white in a cardboard grip. Spitting image of a world spent. Please donate all wages to the schismatic split.

Double or nothing, crisis or catastrophe. We spark a few synapses for our favourite songs. Thoughts don’t keep us warm in the cold. We will miss ourselves until we see we peaked a lifetime ago.

No more reaching out. The olive branches have broken under foot. Hands turn to fists and the ebullient lash out. Staying put on the mat, feeling the truth in the breath.

Told to let go or move on to better things. These are but stolen thoughts occupied in saving throws.

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