Identity is a broken hinge on which
The closet door of self hangs
The loose screws gasping to hang on
Exhausted sheet rock shredding,
Lost in a memory of its former self.
A cry out! Ayyy me! OH the
Agony of being asked to
To move something else, oh the
Peril of losing one’s grip entirely.
Material inflexible, crafted to be fixed
Yet mechanical. Value in
Identity is a broken hinge
Holding up the closet door of
Self; unaware of its own
Patent inscribed, its own
One who once hunched over a
Workbench and reveled in
This bronze beauty.
Today’s #napowrimo prompt:
Today, we challenge you to write a poem that is about something abstract perhaps an ideal like beautyor justice, but which discusses or describes that abstraction in the form of relentlessly concrete nouns.