The sun sparkles
And illuminates,
The glass edge,
Of my soul,
Vibrating with life.
The rising pitch of surrounding voices,
Conducted by my own,
Melts it razer thin,
Threatening to shatter,
And scatter,
Into many fragments.
I forget to stop and measure,
The damage I have done,
I could see,
If I paused,
That the golden lines are always longer,
Spinning consistently out,
Strong enough to hold,
Despite the holes.

It is difficult to see,
All the gems you place in my palm,
For the blood that covers their shining edges,
The perfect ones,
Cut so deep,
Searching,
For the ***** of clay they must replace,

Gluttony,
Like every sin,
Is built upon a Lie,
The Lie,
That what you have sat down to enjoy,
Is Closer,
Than Love,
My heart calls,
And cries,
Wanting to be comforted in real arms,
Not chocolate,
Not honey,
But warm mouths,
And strong hands,
And words woven,
In Heaven.

Stop,
Pretending,
to be someone,
Who is as grand as you,
Some,
Are born,
Never doubting,
Most must turn their hearts,
Inside out,
to see the Truth,
Airs are only empty pride,
Hollow disbelief in oneself,
and Angels cry,
For a lie,
Is to Deny,
Your birthright.

You cannot reach,
your dreams alone,
and if you're not a trust fund baby now,
Stop,
Pretending.

The world of God holds you up,
And wants to feed you better fare,
Your Own,
Skin,
Will feel,
A thousand times more beautiful,
If,
You stopped,
Pretending.

At a sungraced window sits,
I,
Pondering,
the greatness,
of a man.
Amid the lacy curtains of my romantic mind,
I strive to learn something more Heavy,
Next to my golden couch,
is a vain peacock,
Surrounded by green fibers,
woven expertly,
forgetting he lives in a cage,
the gardens but imagined,
little lies from his mouth,
Are hard to ignore.

Sometimes I wonder,
if my lines,
For Ulysses,
Are chains,
Instead of freedom,
Closer to a siren,
Then the angel I wish I was,
My great poetry,
A trap,
Setting me up,
To remember,
A waste of time,
Not that You are a waste,
Oh great one,
But my heart spends its energy on useless things,
Add my mouth eats too much chocolate.

Life is full,
of short companions,
And beauty transient,
a friend,
that is seen for a week,
But loved for a year,
like a gifted rose,
whose petals are remembered,
scent lingering in the mind.

I learned to stand,
and break my fall,
To give space,
when quarters squeeze and ache,
But have I learned to defend?
I know how to chase,
But how do I keep?
I can lift a knife to cut into my family,
But can I lift my hands to build a home?
Love, like a child,
comes along easily enough,
But keeping it alive is hard.

In a web of polyester,
Strung across brick branches,
We struggled to our death,
How did we forget our companions?
And deny our protectors?
The little ones are life,
And the simple are sweet,
My bones cry out in condemnation,
Of the many who blindly blundered before me,
Their stickiness surrounds me,
Their sins remain to bind me,
A path weaving on the cliff edge of fire,
I long for my prelude to finish,
And this frail beginning to blossom into all I will become,
Tedious is time,
And I almost envy the evanescent babes,
But for my Glory,
I would have no strength
Fear flees and to me comes joy with peacock feathers,
Living is color,
And I am brightest green