Woven

Image

Woven

I keep a steady weave in

and out

of the whole thing.

I’ve heard it said that life is about the stumbling,

the steadying,

the standing.

Because what painter, creator,

Maker,

likes routine?

Our roads are painted differently.

Murmur my prayers, lace my fingers,

try not to flutter

my eye

lids,

like jars full of fire flies

blinking, brushing against my glass

disguise.

Waiting for my past to catch up,

with all the cigarettes and blurry highs,

-some kind of slanted fairy tale-

and the zest of dark words spiking

tongue and cheek.

I’m not shatter proof.

Nostalgia doesn’t pursue quite so often now

Still, when I feel slippage,

I yank my sleeves

over my tattooed wrists.

He could not forget

that beneath the etched black ink

lies the pigment He mixed

milky-white skin

pale as moonlight,

or fresh powder never touching

dawn.

I’m here, or there

and You, You’re everywhere.

My desk is always littered

with pencil sketches half-done.

Rainbow Sharpies, scattered

over sketches half-colored,

missing caps –

I’ll finish eventually.

Spread thin,

like peanut butter and honey

on toast.

Salt needs a little sweet.

A spirit runs no differently.

I’ll abide,

abide,

abide.

Until I’ve transcended time

and I’m heels over head

suspended, trying to cling to His thread

frayed

that ran internally all along.

Advertisements