I am a calico dream,
slipped in a
teethless gown,
holding a warm
candle to light
your way;

I am a lightfoundling
shimmering in
the rays
of a new unmaking;

I am an ulcered
goodness;

I am
incorporated into
the bodies
of monsters

If we choose to be
we can be:

the voice of the voiceless,
the strength of the weakest,
a glimmer of hope for the hopeless,
a ray of light in darkness.

A strange, dense, heavy word.
Once, graceful and noble
or it seemed to be
until I used it too much.
I know that something fails,
that I’m losing its huge potential.

If I pronounce it aloud
it doesn’t shine anymore for me
in the tiny corners of my mind.
It lingered awkwardly, repeating
“I’m here!”.

The tangled threads
imposing new interpretations.
The materializing weight of sounds.
It's a bitter pill to swallow,
but I know the side effects.

The lightness of the feather
turns into a red brick.
When it hits me,
my inner calm ceases to exist.

I’m struggling to rationalize,
to be more tolerant.
And I just ask myself:
if I truly believe,
why do I say it?

The word so needed,
so loved,
in the silence,
in conviction,
in the presence of no absence.

Something authentic,
wasn’t it meant to be spoken?
So sinister…
it builds and destroys.

The word,

the idea

of




TRUST...