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What We Will Be
We could call it a river of light,
shining rivulets spread fingers
to cautiously shield
a delicate find.
There is a special current,
sensitive in bright ripples
that play into pools
of clear shelter.
The sun glides across wavelets
with a pulsing warmth,
lays in crystal depths
so revealing.
We could call it a grain of sand,
each one of a thousand
unique and bold
in the structure.
It can build the most complex of cities,
carve the hardest woods,
transform into glass,
a work of beauty.
It graces the shores of the seas.
It is desert simple
and clean with majesty
of whitened grace.
We could call it a mountain,
rising to meet the sky,
shoulders forested
in redolant pine.
The ridges rise in purple
to meet the new day,
the call of the songbird
a greeting.
The peak is a lonely place,
but the ice has melted
and flows into a fresh stream
to give life.
We will call it your heart,
that asks for nothing
but the returning
of gracious love.
Tender is the placing
of trust broken more
than once. A
hard tragedy.
I will place it next to mine
and care for it
with all that I am,
what we will be.
The Fist
It is relentless, this surging, a far too bright pounding.
It rebounds inside my skull.
I am so tired with this weary tragedy.
Just let me go.
Never is there silence.
It throbs. No mercy.
There is up, so up.
Then I fall down, far low down.
There is no effort in the climbing.
But the air is thin, fades
to nothing to gasp.
No warning sleep.
It grasps me in clutches.
The light, it fades.
I curl to reek of sweat.
I make no motion.
I will not hear my cry.
I want nothing.
And nothing wants me near.
The pull takes me to the pit.
I am watched, touched
with a lonesome guilt.
There is no company in waiting
for what I can not tell.
Rip into the shadows
to confusing dreams. They are not real.
Bind this message
with the burden of stone.
I fly again, and again it happens.
It will write in my blood
when I escape these prison walls.
What can I say to people
who are not me?
I paint the moon and burn in hells.
I lay in coils poised
to strike myself.
I have no reflection with meaning.
I recoil.
This is useless. A shrinking circle.
But I hold to a branch.
Make war with the current.
I beat dents into my shield. It shatters.
I hammer another.
A fury engages me with the utter stupidity of my failure.
I gorge a raw meat.
The taste is acid. And rank.
I fold to see my belly.
I smell the stench, like a coward. No.
There is yet no defeat.
I plunge across a black and white rainbow.
I will not step without some light
in my scorched matrix.
There is no sum total to what I am.
I expand.
With this swelling comes the price
of my existence.
It is all together and up and down I go.
The stirring has no end.
My fingers touch my palm to make a fist.
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