I worked for every edge
Of this  unskippable stone
That won't slide through fingers
For such easy pleasures.

No **** silouette
Not an eye catching
Form, barely turned
To soft by tide.

If easy is what you
Want
If perfect is the number
Of skips you can count
On one hand,
Then I suggest you
You undress your
Cravings. For supple
skin like Hair and nail
will too
be Clipped.

There is no
Faultless form
Smooth enough
To slip through
Heart and hand
Unless it is
Your own.

Aren't we all
the spider
a trespasser, misunderstood for such earnest and
silent plodding?

For it it is just a march
Across roads we claim
As our own-
He, A foe so at ease
Picking the terrain like
strings without rehearsal.  
To couple and  produce
a life too big
To quantify; each easy offspring
Another body to pinch
Out.

Fall has its way
With his march
And signals the
Small ship in the
bottle of his chest
to journey to dangerous claims
To soldier over dry river beds
To pull from his
Body a map
Only known
to the stars.

Don't we all want the same?
To quiet the lips of life's
loud and demanding mouth,
to pull the teeth of each of our helpless spearings?
To walk on stready, unwavering limbs
effortlessly.
To feed a deep, strange thirst that begs of us
to cross that thin
red Line
as Treacherous
as it may be.
To grab ahold and shuck
The hands
That hold
Our truth.