Emily Winters                                                                                                        

“Out of the Frying Pan”

I’m sorry if it bothers you

But I love the sound of my own voice

As it drones on and on and

The drones drip their acid-edged pillows

Across the aspirin-colored sky.

Do you hear that?

It’s the sound that bombs make

As they cry;

It’s the sound of minds as they fly.

But I’ve no silk thread wrapped

Around my neck;

There’s no safety net

Cushioning the desert floor,

Barring me from getting burned!

There’s just the frying pan and the

Inevitable flames that ensue

Every time you grip the arthritis-friendly cap.

Just one more.

To make the pain subside for another day,

To make the world’s edges fade

And all the background noise climax

In some sort of discordant symphony.

Allow me to continue

Humming to myself a song

I heard in the olden days when

Nukes flitted across the sky like shooting stars

And rockets were aimed straight for the heart

And the moon was much more than just

Some rock amidst the stars

That fascinates children.

These aren’t fairytales!

Life, as I’m sure you’ve been told,

Is all too real;

I‘ve gone off

Some deep end that marked the border between

The here and now and

Where I’ve already been.

What is past

If I only perpetually relive my tragedies,

If my daydreams are only fantasies that

Cause the memories and the truth

To become detached

For just a short while.

But excuse me,

I’ll just stop talking.