We are almost done with this crazy mess

Broken Stars

They say I can't,
they say I'll need a map of strangers
and I can't hide anymore.
Ceramic corners dangle,
essence broken:

I would like to grow wings
and take flight
so that notes translate into
letters to Cassiopeia.

I've forgotten why I'm here,
dripping color on every centimeter
of white.

I'm not the postcard anymore.

copyright Maya Ganesan, 2009