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Soliloquy




I crave walls built of stone, supports made to be
around a while, because I love them, not because
I buy their lie. There's no tomorrow—well, there is,
until there isn't. Like your body hasn't failed, until it has;
like your memory hasn't filled all the space formerly
stockpiling hope, until it has; like your identity
hasn't dissipated into a vague, opaque approximation
of unique, until...well, you know the drill.

I love them not because of their lie—not despite it, either—
it's incidental—I love them, rather, because of their
metaphorical weight in my anthropomorphic schema,
and because they reply to my soliloquies with echo.
Stone is old—really, really old. It dreams of the defensible,
tastes of the sated, the assurances of repetition, a frenzy
of solitude. But even within the enclosure, exposure.
Walls made of paper are better for poems.

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.