Poetry from Oona Haskovec

They are tired too

The pained crunching 
Echoing like voices 
Down the stained hall of my old apartment.
Beneath the soles
Of my bare feet,
Those heart-shaped leaves are confined
To a rough powder of broken shapes and pieces,
Those crushed artifacts harshly prodding
At my exposed heel.

The crumbling vines holding
The once vibrant grape leaves, 
Grasping at the decomposing trellis that
Continues to be their supporting factor, 
The one thing keeping them from dissolving into the rotting wooden slats below,
Cheering them on from the not-so-side lines as they
Cling with all the might contained in their frail limbs,
Once thriving but now, 

That ancient, tea-colored beige, like the dust that clings to the windshield of her old Mercedes as the wheels grumble across the trembling metal bridge, like a game of “will it hold me.” the only game those broken pieces of hearts know how to play.
Silky sandpaper, my fingers dragging along in the muddy foliage of the garden, coating my fingertips with the texture of life, only in a childhood background.

Almost feeling drowned, drained, in the lack of moisture, the lack of care the ignorance thrown upon their once-photosynthesising 

i stand by, 
not interfering with the natural order of the way things always seem to play out, 
the branches scrape at my shoulders as I pass, opening new wounds that I'll leave for time to heal.
yet both the leaves and i seem to be defeated by 
something. maybe 
just the heat of this smoky summer afternoon, 
giving false hope at comfort as it smears into 
shivering shoulders in the evening light. 
by that never ending cycle of hoping, 
my spine buries itself into the dirt, 
liquid seeping down 
through my roots, 
nurturing the vines, 
bringing life into their 
pretty faces. 
i lay here, 

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