The Brunt of the Wallydraigle by Savannah Gelles


Frail, eager for satisfying hunger but lost without past company
Starved of the warmth of their mother’s arms, or the kisses of their friend’s puppy
Burned out by the ashes of their brain’s tantrums, they curl into a ball of peak alienation
Because so long as your arms are your friends 
And your fingers are your thumb drive
How can seclusion be the enemy?
Relieved of the spectacle that is reality, and instead taken by the drawing that is illusion
The air that you breathe, cough, or sneeze is not your own alone


You allow fate to raise you, or perhaps rise with you
Like when a pianist drums their left hand onto the lowest Beethoven chord
Or when a ballerina falls from a passé into her ending position before the stage fades to black
You hiccup a breath and release 
And all the clearer, all the more sound is the life around you
Taken by life’s entity and not by its curious meaning
The breath is the only present reality
Like a plant sprung up from its cortex
Humans have a rich connection that can’t harvest without the security of one’s ability to let go

Photo by Hasan Almasi on Unsplash