morning stories: contentment
sometimes the stories we write
are not ours at all
but cries called into echoes of lives
as narratives paving ways to traverse
the curses that curve edges into the drips of our seconds
as semantic lifeboats, they float over mysteries below,
lily pads printed to provide trampolines for leaps
of gravity-defying sticky foot feats
to strive high above hollows of anonymitys unknown
such are stories
and the ways they are told
as offers, called audibles,
into the season of discontentment
doubleosusan 