Singed whiskers

So let’s count then :
Split drum
Smashed phone
Sprinkled computer
Torn kalimba
Ripped travel bag
Toothless rattle.

People around me tend to
Die
At an enthusiastic pace.
Their homes partners jobs vanish
Their identity crumbles
They have visions of wolves.

Perhaps that’s the price I pay for the low rumble in my wake.
The lightning I let through me
Singes my whiskers,
Scorches my toys.

Some people have fertile fingers.
Everything they touch blooms.

My hands can stay buried deep in my pockets –
I’ll blink,
And brush the dust from my face.
Pat a shoulder.
Squeeze a bewildered hand.

What was fading
Slowly
Gently
Is suddenly gone.

And don’t be fooled into pointing fingers.
This is your doing!
Who called me here?
Snatch the mask off my face
And find a mirror inside.


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