On the backs of
flies
we wait for the
next thing.
Something is
always coming.
A birth or death,
food or hunger
hatred
laughter
love...

Something is always
coming around the
corner.
The Mad Hatter with
mushroom tea.
A strange color of
blue that tastes like
almonds.
A ****** that sparkles
in the night.

Listless mornings
of languid
walks with the
wife in the cool
of the evening.

A knife in the back,
a shark attack,
or maybe, just
possibly, you write
a poem about
waiting for the
next thing.

Bowing to the ***** god,
I lived like a pleasure
seeking missile, propelled
toward all things ME.
Empty as a carcass.
Hungry as a desert.
I didn't see the
strawberry moon of
summer.
It was me and the
Ferryman, until the
river ran dry.
Eternal winter for
the soul.

And then

A revolution in my
being.
A total shift in
my values and
perception.
The Creator purchased
my dilapidated heart.
He moved in and lives
there still.

My home, on the outside
might look like
a shack to some, but inside
it's a mansion with the
most sublime bread you
ever tasted.
Fruit trees in every room.

I am so tired…. But Its not a lack of sleep. Its emotional, mental, physical the loss runs deep.
Standing on the edge of hope and hopeless choosing between blinding pain and numbness.
My head hurts, my stomach is twisted in knots. My body has a physical response  and i am not calling the shots.
Wish i could turn it off but the damage is done.
I have changed irrevocably from the battles lost and won.
Tiny fissures left open scream out and bleed. At best i slap on a bandaid ignoring the real need.
At times i stop and survey the path i am leaving of blood and tears. But i force myself forward in spite of the fears.
Just Keep moving ignore the pain, the alarms screaming survival is the game.
Dodging bullets, walking on eggshells, being a wall and a shield. Trying not to lose myself in the mass casualties on the field.
I feel the heavy pressure of walking this line. Burdened by a choice between true peace and everything is fine.
If only i was the only one who had to pay for my choices. But i bear the weight of those other helpless voices.

We talk about the
past like it's a
movie we
watched together.
You liked the
cinematography.
I didn't care for the
cruelty of the
protagonist.

We disagree on the
theme, and every
scene holds different
aspects of
symbolism for us.
I'm not sure I want
there to be a sequel,
despite the good
acting.

You were worried about
the storm, so you
invited it in,
wanting to control the
damage through your
kindness and friendship.
But you can't.
The storm doesn't have
a conscience.
It will never be a cute
pet on your leash.