365 Days of Poetry: Day Two-Hundred and Forty-Three

Your entrancing dance;
slowly, stately, adagio-
like a moth around a flame.
like a curling player’s game.
you are liquid.

I am solid;
a grinding tempo-
words and thoughts slipping.
into unformed rock and bone.

i am not home.

but where.
where are we when we refuse to care.
where are we when there’s nothing there.
who chases you.
who breaks you.
when the marching death comes down.
and we are herded.
in things we never meant to be.

there is no democracy.
no liberal system with all free.
we are all numbers.
place values.
secondary consumers.
to those.
with the luck or breeding.
to get in on the first wave.

climbing upward.
social class system skewed.
by all the data that can’t be viewed.
and all scrutinize.
and die.
and die.
this cry inside.

when did i stop mattering to me.
when did i lose what it meant to be free.
when did i gain all this hate and mistrust.
these hampers and hangups.
this misguided lust.
I need to breathe.
need to see.
I’m still me.
I’m still me.

And, raging.
I’ll be free.
I’ll shake off what you meant and dream.
whatever shall be.
I am me.


About June Faramore

Writer of fantasy, mainstream, and young adult fiction. Poet and sketcher. Mother. I read a lot and love cheese. Guitar playing singer-songwriter. I also enjoy stepping on the cracks in the sidewalk. View all posts by June Faramore

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