Strangely Dim

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I guess I pity you

Is that okay to say?

I mean, you have these lofty goals

That you will not attain

You have the choice, you know?

On how you use your time

But do feel free

Whittle-away on me

Whose God has crossed The finish line

Lizard Legs

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I look at this skin

I see it, I see hope

Splotchy, yellow-blue at times

Like the shades of a bruise

Slow-moving

At the pace of a lizard’s cool blood

Sometimes

Yet always

Legs to carry it and a thick exterior

To protect it

Should it pain me or try to run

Is all I know to do

Thief

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I know

I am nothing

More

Mere smashed-up, shattered pottery

An impermanent cup, long since buried

Serving as drainage

For your pretty backyard garden flowers

Then when I finally drink

From the cup that is not shattered

The cup that matches yours but is intact

I

See I am the mosaic labyrinth in you

I

The nutrients, light and sweet rain for you

I

The height and beauty of you

I

The reason they wish to pluck you

I

The breath-stealing scent of you

Looking Back

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It was a three year-old’s eyes through which I first saw you. I noticed myself as we two looked back. Why was I, I’d wondered, the only one asking why. Then I saw you, dancing with the what, not caring for the why. You were, weren’t you. You, seeing me struggle with what words, spoke to me the only way you could. Silently. I’ve grown old and ill from asking why, I know. They say we can be healed, that the truth sets us free. What truth can you tell to a three year-old child that she already doesn’t see.

The Actual Eternal

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A damned good author

Who’ll debate with me well

Yet write lies

Conceived in etherless light reflective

Of darkness and wars neither worth it

Nor won

I’m this fantastic, fantasy-filled flower

Facing somewhere true

Journeying along the narrow path

That bends across the expanse of time

Evergreen, it’s said, and analog

Evidenced by The Actual Eternal