Within reach

as if a mirage

yet, this time

it's all too real.

Every gardener
knows what it is
to be pricked
by a rose’s thorn.
to that end,
-wear gloves.

Routinely these words
miss most
and reach only a few.

Some call them trite,
lame
or flat.

Not up to par;
nonetheless they fill this space
and await contemplation.

aching muscles,
these memories;
a blood stained t shirt.
all the while
pretending
not to feel pain.

Needed someone
to understand
if you fall
you can get up again.
-Why glass bottles
are full of sand,
how it goes
round and round.
Nothing's bound forevermore
not hate nor love.

There's talk of redemption
in crowded halls,
and as they adjust the dial
there's an addendum.
hard to tell
just who is right
although everyone knows
who is wrong.
no doorway in sight
in this mirror funhouse,
but the poor have TV's now
isn't that nice?

Constant

yet, ever-changing.

Just as waves

on the beach;

so are the years

and us.