Frets

A little paralyzed
Blinded still, at times
These days

Moments worth true gold
Become hours wayward spent
Making sense of eyes
Wond’ring of intentions

What culpability
What unseen brokenness
Finds my listless guitar
Nerves regenerated
Arising, free
For to tell me
Overthink no more

washed

Primitive heart
Can I abandon you now
Is the world safe
Again
Outside

Over-protective imagination
Can I embrace your flight
Will I see to catch
Myself
Falling

Or will my all forever be 
As snow
Pure and driven
Insulated and blinded
By itself

Still, Soft Search

Four corners I’ve found
Flat, hard, sharp, square
I dig in, grasping, despite the glare
Emptying
It would appear
It is for naught 
And not my style
I let go, hoping, because the song 
Singing
The world must be softer than this