The Joke is She

A pair of eyes sat by the shore,
waiting for the sunset.
She has seen this many times before,
and she’ll wait for it a lifetime more.
The waves quickened the throbs of her heart
like a DJ does with a cocktail
or like scissors piercing her souls apart –
as he had joked around for a head start.

What do you call the cheese that is not yours?
What?
Nacho Cheese.

These moments that pulled her back
to things she struggled to escape:
Laughter is not always what you lack
When in southern hemisphere, you’re taken aback.

Why did the scarecrow win the Nobel Prize?
Why?
Because he stood out in his field.

These moments they’ve had, she’d blown away,
Not of pride and heart ache.
But for growth to play.
Left the things she thought she needed, to avoid dismay.

What do you call the beer that is not yet touched?
What?
Virgin.

These things she loathed and hid
underneath what she calls Past
Broke the walls she stood amid
the jokes which cackled her; tears were freed.
What frailty she past-dwelling spirit of the shore has,
What child-like artlessness to stare at the ocean
And pray to the waves…
His jokes were stones up above her heart,
To build a wall where she’d rest and calm.
But, fair eyes overlooked that part,
and been weighed down to doubt the art.

And, this ends here, where she sees the earth,
When she’s so high above the ground,
Where the sunset seemed like filth,
Where no one can reach nor see – where she couldn’t breathe.

What do you call a girl who hates jokes?
Me.
Yes.

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