Riley welch is a poet from texas living in Denver. She posts three original poems a week. 

Irregular Fires

He sat up straight.

As the moon’s crescent sailed across the sky
Black and with a depth
You wouldn’t expect it from such a solid color
Seeing long past what you thought you could

He felt like a puppet
Tied up by strings
But he always had
Led through life
By golden-gloved finger tips

Pulling legs and arms
And directing him
Moving whatever way the gods would yank him

But today felt different
He sat up sharp

Usually they guided
And he followed

But this felt forced

Like the golden gloves
And delicate fingers

Were replaced with a set too large to grasp the wooden control

He yanked the sheets from his bed
And let his feet hit the
Cold hard floor

He rushed his way through morning chores
And slammed the door
On his way out

Today was not soft
Today was rough
Every move he made was rough

His wheels skidded on the road
And his turns were sharp
The brakes didn’t pump even
Short and long
His foot felt foreign as he hit the pedals

And when he rolled into the driveway
That night
Dark as the one before
He hoped he could be led –
And not pushed,

Like before.               

Riley Welch


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