Pump Songs

The words of songs fold us over on ourselves. Inside we rest in them like dreams. In my chair pump provided both music and lyric. It droned like a metronome, singular and boring. Its prose limited to two word single syllable phrases.

hate you hate you hate you

no more no more no more

Its constant chains held me there listening recreating it’s heartbeat taunting me.

—-

I took to the woods to carry her away from that place. I stromed through the dust and dirt in shoes I had no business taking there. Sweat dripped down past my ears and between my shoulder blades. I covered more ground in those minutes that I had in all of three months. My knees burned while she slept. I begged the trees to soak up the emotions as they sloughed off me. Muscles warm became taught. I had to stop.

Stillness raised itself gripping my calves it twisted me to face east. The heat of the sun sunk the cold as wind gently stroked the trees. Soft whispers - a different lullaby of distant voices stroked my hair. These were songs I thought I’d never hear.

—-

I brought the stillness to sit with me in my chair.

I can I will I am

Looking back these stories feel like miracles.

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