Poetry

A Black Dot

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Life is nothing more than a rumor, the old game of telephone, drinking icy water until it hits you – your mouth is full of sand. It’s a mirage. A facade. A black dot on a white canvas sold for two million dollars – because of a signature. While a million unknown artists stay up all night painting, perfecting every stroke, in their studio apartments with a communal bathroom – in which they can barely afford.

The spiral highways that make you believe you’re going somewhere… only to end up at a dead end. The never ending hallway at the hotel and forgetting your room number. Big sunglasses hiding a perpetual black eye.

And a 100 year old broken down shack of a church, that you stumbled upon in the middle of nowhere and don’t entertain investigating, because you already know it’s empty. You know even then; when the roof wasn’t caved in, the walls fresh of white paint coating the reality of a dead tree, and the pews were full.

It was always empty.

People getting away with murder living in mansions with guards, security cameras, inside of high walls and locked gates. While the pure hearted homeless man I talked to – was found floating in the river the next morning because he fell asleep on a hill and dreamily rolled into the water and nobody knew his name.

Nobody knew his name.

I didn’t ask his name.

It’s the bitter nights, the haunting scream of stray cats – fighting – yowling, like a helpless baby left on the doorstep of an empty 100 year old church, and a mother who lost all hope, ready to go by way of the homeless man in the river – all in one.

And then you wake up one day, sit outside, gripping the handle of a hot cup of coffee, a clear morning sky, the sound of doves cooing, the feeling of your bare feet letting the soft green grass stand up in between your toes, and the smell of fresh, overgrown, unkempt, flowering chives, and it’s just enough… to keep you going.

~Sarah Davenport 2014

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