A wrangled diaphanous existence--
I swam through window-panes,
Staring blankly at apartments.
Was my hand always this pale?

A slow capillary refill, a body
not worth the stale mass
I occupied within hollow walls.

Staring at this paper, 

I can barely breathe--
The prose shows too much of me.
Hiding behind these leaves of ink,
Is a person who barely speaks
Except through crumpled sheets
Of muffled lines, weak at the knees.
Where does my cursive lead?
To an illegible land of pain and grief?

I hope I have not been unkind,
Or muddled the world
With swine-like words.
Put my life on rewind;
Moonwalk my shoes
Back to the first time
I saw your eyes---
Uncertain, but kind
Did genuine disgust
Scare you away?
What can I say
To convince you
It was all a lie,
A scathing mask
Plastered on my face,
Always trying to dissuade
Unwelcome emotions
From broadcasting
Through the way
I say your name?

Give me the reins--
This terrain feels
Unbearably unsafe.
Dusk on your face,
The prairie dogs chase us,
Nicking the horses--
I’m forced to admit
side saddle was a bad choice.
The sun divorces
The smoky sky,
I felt the saddle slip
straight to the side.

The man’s neck craned eerily
Over his shaking cup of coffee,
As if the bones in his neck
Were disjointed, hanging loosely
There was a distance to his eyes
As if they were thinking, thinking
But never quite seeing things
I kept my distance, like most others,
But he insisted on talking,
Mumbling ravaged thoughts,
As if he didnt see the frightened
Posture and body language
Of all those around him

It’s funny how our self-doubt
Is the basis of poetry
And it’s even more humorous,
How that is the very thing
We have to get past
To write it.

How do you know when someone
Is meant to be in your life?
Is it a feeling, an ever-present,
glowing “yes,” that sings?
Or is it a subtle voice,
One barely daring to speak,
noting how gentle he stands,
how your posture lightens
When he enters the room?
Is it the kindness of his hands,
or the intentionality of his words?
His voice is rolling hills,
quiet and genuine,
But loud and boisterous
When he needs to be.
A serene peace,
a deep understanding
Of where his feet should be
Standing and direct,
yet never raised,
Or sitting and patient,
waiting for another soul
to sit beside him and ask:
“So who’s this Jesus?”
I want to be that person.
but is that seat filled?

Am I supposed to sit
in a different row entirely?
Lord, what is this wall,
this barrier, blocking me
From connecting?