This Kind Of Armor By (Mimi M. Meyer) Poem by Mimi Mata

Between time and space
There is no retreat for tired arms,
The coarseness of hands seem almost inanimate...
Like objects set aside; restlessly ticking.

And is it in just a matter of time
That one forgets not to only love,
But to hate those things that never do?
And it is this kind of armor...
That allows that unsettling butterfly to seep in.

And in your winter it will fall
Solidify, cold in its heaviness,
But somehow compromising with some kind of fire
To melt into a wither...

In my time,
I want to taste the buttery, green, soft of 'leaves.'
I have to conquer 'them' in my hands
Until they find another retreat
From my 'almost' inanimate arms...

And it is just in that matter of time
That one forgets not to only love,
But to hate those things that never do.
And it is this kind of armor
That allows that unsettling butterfly to seep in,
Held within your soul; restlessly ticking,
Only to compromise with some kind of fire...
To melt into a wither between time and silent spaces.