crumpled

there is a crumpled kind of peace 
we litter across dusty floors: 
half-done or quick-discarded things 
we couldn't shape or form to taste. 

and really, what is all of this? 
the photo and the blog make right 
our true, private imbalances: 
we none of us are hollywood, 

and that includes real hollywood. 
for image lies, but with great force: 
and happy accidents are those 
arranged the best to leave no trace 

of all of our great artifice. 
we throw away so rapidly 
each new impression, person, friend, 
then snatch at air, and call that life. 

so where, you ask, is crumpled peace?
it acceptance of the flaws 
not just of ours, but most of theirs: 
for life is messy-glorious, 

half-colored pictures, drawn in haste -- 
the dreams we see but can't make real -- 
the wishes stronger than the sun 
we orbit but cannot approach.

This was a 12-minute timed write. For more from other NanoPoblano bloggers, click here.

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Beleaguered Servant

Owen Servant is an online poet working in a style that's been described as "compulsive". In real life, he is an actuary, because being a poet wasn't unpopular enough.

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