Lost In Oz

The line down the center of my back,
where the slice was made,
itches as the skin chafes at the edges,
barely holding the threads
that sewed it back together
trying to contain the emptiness
that fills the hollow
that I have become.
 
The key inserted in the center,
oversized and heavy,
has begun to rust from disuse.
I cannot reach it anyway,
I merely bear its weight
like a cross upon my back
and count my steps across the desert.
 
Am I just like the Tin Man,
a velvet heart filled with sawdust
stuffed inside my empty shell?
Or am I packed with straw to fill my void,
for mindlessly I trek from day to day,
each task performed by rote.
 
The key inserted in my back
clicks a quarter turn
and I drag my feet across the sand
another step,
the wind an echoed whistle
through my emptiness
but I do not feel the chill
for I am numb.
 
The chain around my neck
keeps me afloat
when the voices bouncing
off my head refuse to cease,
and I reach for it,
a lifeline cast in years gone by.
I close my eyes
and let the life drain out my fingertips
as I whisper in the night …
 
I am tired
but sleep evades me,
I am weak
but you refuse to let me
use the word
and so I rest a bit
in your shadow
enough to carry me another step
across the sand.


 

may 2010
Janet Reid



   
Awarded by Poetic Constellations ~ Ayana



 



Awarded by Poetic Constellations ~ May 19, 2010