The Discordant Ventriloquist

There’s a book on the shelf
collecting dust.
You haven’t read it,
though you’ve said time and again that you would.

There’s a word on the tip
of your tongue.
You haven’t spoke it,
though it’s been there for years upon years.

There’s a memory of a time
not so long ago.
You forgot it,
though you never imagined you’d be free.

There’s a ragged, wooden bridge
over a creek.
You haven’t crossed it,
though it tempts you whenever you pass by.

And there’s no dummy like the dummy
played for laughs, played for funny
by one skilled in throwing different voices.

Now you find that you speak through crooked wooden teeth
of another offense and lingering, heartfelt grief
and insinuate you’ve been robbed of choices.

There’s a fire in the pit
slowly dying.
You haven’t stoked it,
though it’s comforting heat you’ve always welcomed.

There’s a time and a place
for that true thing.
You haven’t found it,
though you swore that you’d never stop looking.

There’s a race to the finish
and a medal for the victor.
You haven’t run it,
though you’ve practiced so much that it hurts.

There’s an ever-present moment
to your life.
You haven’t noticed,
though everyone hears the creaks in your bones.

And there’s no dummy like the dummy
played for laughs, played for funny
by one skilled in throwing different voices.

Now you find that you speak through polished wooden teeth
believing only you must carry out this grief.
Yet you fail to see you always have choices.

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The Discordant Ventriloquist

Sock it to me

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