Red Strings

I don’t know how I’m feeling today.
It’s almost like I’ve never been alive
before, and all I can remember is just
a dream of random fragments that have
no connection. They cut the threads
one at a time, and watch as
it unravels itself into a pile on the floor.
The mass of red strings look like guts
and I kick it out the door into the rain.
When something’s done that way you
can’t return to how things were before.
There’s entrails of a an owl tangled in
the wires above the street. Talons of
pigeons dig into them when they land
there, confusing them for the their usual
perches. The road crews are never called
to take them down. It’s the stance of the
head office to let them just melt from
exposure to the air, and fall like soft hail.
There aren’t many choices to make in a
single day anymore. The main one is simply
whether or not to continue participating.
We sit on the edge of our towns with hockey
sticks carved into crude spears and try
pierce another heart as it flies.

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