Auckland Poetry

Is it grief?
when your bent to a crease
from a throw-up posture
that’s retched in disease

Perhaps it’s anger strum
on a metallic fender
where palpitations burst
each heart-beat rendered

Strap tighter rejection
as it flaps on the side
it’s a bag to be carried
not hidden nor disguised

Where do you hang laughter
designer born of fine crafters
then somersault three-sixty
over-love-locked disaster

Now I’m awakened from
a deep depression in bed
to slip on bathed colours
of eternal hope fashioned
for twenty-four hours ahead.

Copyright Deana Platt 1/17/08

Emancipation Planz

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