We are called to walk in the Spirit,
yet a nameless grip keeps steering our feet astray.
That’s when we go searching for willpower
for dominion over the sights before our eyes
and the thoughts we let rise in our minds.

We may think we’re always right
but if that were true,
every person would claim the bench of Chief Justice,
or worse, the throne of Chief Lawless.

Casting my yarns of many colors in turns,
Hoping my yearning earns what I thirst for.
The fire took advantage—
Burnt fiercely, feeding on my resentment like hay.
Painful hatred made me its subject,
Letting fear delay the beat of my heart.

Through the flame, I saw only bloodshot reflections—
A version of me I barely recognized.
My nose flared, carrying anger down the walkway,
While deception dressed as truth passed by.

Why does the light shine on my shadowed scars?
Why does my retina reflect a bloodied knife?
Why can’t I sleep with my eyes closed
When even the sun can rest?

Am I healing, or dying?
Even if it’s only an echo
That dares to beat a drum and whisper healing—
Let it speak.
Maybe then, the vengeful color in my pupils
Will soften into something human again.

I just need one voice to reach deep,
To say:
“Your scars are proof you healed.”

One million grains of Sand
Hitched a ride home from the beach

Hidden in the folds of my clothes
And from my locks, down to my feet



These one million grains of You
Just aren't enough memories

I heard your laugh in a dream last night
And was carried back out to sea

That freshly planted bush
Dries in the afternoon sun
Filtering through an overgrown pear tree
Loaded with an unpicked harvest

Were he younger
He would climb the tree
Were he younger, he would
Enter the house and kiss
The woman
Who says she loves him

That freshly planted bush
Might not make it
Through the Fall
Wilting and dying before Winter

Were he younger
The plant would not die
Were he younger
What would the plant become

Written in 2018
The plant has survived