a poem by Roger B Rueda
is like a pebble that once buried it'll not shoot
like a seed of a vine that grows up a trellis
and winds itself around tall trees
as it spreads out and obscures them as possible.
It will keep mum underneath the memory
of the living and silverfish.
It'll be lost sight of by the heart that feels for,
that understands.
But no. I will stifle it in texts which hide
on paper where silverfish are dead to the world.
The texts have magic. It is more than a seed.
It is a firework blowing up into the sky.
It will make anyone stagger back against the rail
and topple over, wiping out the gloom of oblivion.
