Maybe your next step will be your last, but you don’t “get” to know beforehand. And instinct is absent.
The floor under your feet will tell you after the fact whether it was ever, at all, true.
And truth, it has been queried, “What is truth,” but I ask you, what is trust? What is trust?
Trust, kept buoyed by hope, took forever to fall away, and these believing eyes with it.
Expectation is only of the coming eve’ and the promise of exasperated sleep, and I praised it more than once.
One morning revealed the night had stolen the vestiges of trust, breaking free all that hope bound.
The only evidence of either, some sense of un-nameable shock. Something’d been there, but what?
Then life’s replaying of horror: The all that was and the all that’s gone. Each breath, each day, each night.
Which is better of a tree? Which is better use of me?
To speak of its presence? Saying, “How strong its solemness, standing tall, withstanding all?” Asking you to close your eyes and opine on how it could be that such a tree only sometimes sways and creaks, whilst all creatures around it move about, busily in elsewhere mode?
Or shall I show this photograph…evidencing all my skill? See here my theft of light, my manipulation of mirrors? All the while holding my breath, knowing all I’d offer you was a lie to your eye, an insult to its blessed, innate sense of depth, of dimension?
Walk we instead, up to this friend and touch, even taste its barked bend? It won’t mind! Trace your finger to its roots-there’s solemnity! Follow, follow upward eyes, leaves dancing in the wind. Shading, singing as a friend?
It’s Winter when he does this, so I buy myself time and find flowers somewhere. Color-filled, with thorns that draw my blood which proves I’m alive and not here to stay quiet and blind. These flowers, I cannot help but clutch them in desperate remembrance that it’s Summer somewhere. I was born in the Summer.
Cascading stars
Not falling stars
Nor momentary shooting stars
Night fireflies
Not fly-by-nights
Nor echoes in the dead of night
Not half-attempts at anything
Nor abstract things
Just real things
Artist Credit: Tiger R.; at various ages
A mistake
Of epic, inhuman error
That looks more like betting the house on a whim
Than burning the breakfast toast
As if the gods had prodded
While I, fresh out of faith, felt forced to obey
Lest my heart be finally ripped from me
And my body thrown down the temple stairs
Maybe when I’m old, then gone, they’ll talk boldly of me
Paint word pictures of the thought I gave, the care I took
Depict the lines on my face without failing the beauty in them
Knowing I’d want them to tell my whole story of success
All of it, and how, but for them, I’d have failed abjectly
Left alone, on an empty grey pier on a lake on high, a warm windstorm making its way through her hair, its force able and willing to carry her away to further aloneness somewhere, and she, sufficiently calm and willing, is nevermore afraid…never more.
Some landfill somewhere
Carries the collateral
From our shifting wants
It’s funny my walk
Undisciplined Disciple
The wax and the wane
LisaRosier.com 