poetry

Dancerian Mania

By Amy Thomson

Cells buzz like sky wires,

she keeps dancing, never tires.

Through grey rain, her feet turn blue,

smile stained, nothing new.

She dances through the city streets,

kissing everyone she meets.

Twirling down the interstate,

swirling home, it’s getting late.

Finally, her feet meet sand,

ocean gateway to homeland.

Her battered feet begin to heal,

delicious moment’s peace she steals.

She pirouettes into the waves,

home at last, she is saved.

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poetry

Another Day at the Masquerade

By Amy Thomson

The closet of masks
sparkles with gleaming teeth,
beneath empty eyes,
hollow lies
lie lurking.
Always working
the perfect angle,
trust is mangled
and coated
with sugar bloated,
empty words
that fill your ears,
crawl into your brain,
center of disdain,
dissolve.
Conversation involves
crafting your smile,
spitting saccharin lullabies
from your gleaming teeth
catch your reflection,
caught the infection,
staring back at two, hollow eyes.

poetry

Itchy Sweater

By Amy Thomson

Rub,
scratch.
Poor material:
chemical,
arterial.
Take it off,
this itchy sweater.
Trend setter.
Out of my skin,
onto the floor,
rotten core
exposed.
Suppose,
I buy a new set of skin,
one akin
to models
and stars?
Behind bars,
one’s self,
one’s shield,
peeled,
revealed:
Amy.