To My Late Night Studiers

Mounds of rotting flesh pile in my hands
Seeping through my fingertips like the finest sand
A Far cry at who we used to be
We used to be late night talkers
Poets
Philosophers
We used to be barefoot field romers
Picnic goers
Flower pickers
We were opinion voicers
Singers
Tellers
We used to be toe tappers
Rhythm catchers
Listeners
enthusiasts
We were writers
Paint hands
Canvas fillers
Stanza builders
Pen holders
Journal barriers

But as the heart of weres and used tos shrivel and decay
Who are we?

Clothes worriers
Mascara eyes
Late night studiers
Opinionless


Drones.


So we hold onto the sliver of who we were
Who we used to be
With white knuckles
And pray we make it
One more day.