We stand,
toes knocking families of small rocks apart
feeling them tumble down cliff face of sure failure that lies ahead
Our chests beats loudly around our hearts
palms clench and unclench in anticipation
wishing to desperately search for handhold but instead remaining still
Gladiator with no weapon but his mind
that same mind that is fearfully aware of the impossibility of a victory
We are faint-hearted
We will die here today

The caverns in our ******* may tumble in upon themselves
but we push onward
headlong into the forces, amidst wind that seeks to push us back into our soft and still rocking cradles
No, we do not let the wind touch this broken flame

There is a certain power in standing naked under the scorching gaze of the ******.

So when your eyes refuse to close
in the face of whirlwind gusts of regret and imperfection
let tears stream backwards and across your face
let them settle into your ears
let them speak to you your fears so that you may agree and move ever onwards
let your clothes be rent and torn across the body that has carried you
across the years, through country and mountain range
through dark caverns of the moments where
your hands grasped for impossible hope
let them see your hands
that have built masterpiece
and broken masterpiece
let them see your chest
that has caved and cracked under the weight of misplaced sentiment
caved and cracked again under pounding contrition
heaved and drawn in reaching breath after reaching breath

Your outstretched palms may wish to search for any floating piece of garment
to clothe your impotent soul
to clothe angry, whimpering scars
the little smudges left on supple skin
No,
let them see every act of faith that God somehow evaded
every phone call left unreturned
every single talent left untouched
every moment of your heart dripping crimson guilt onto your feet
let them see every moment of bravery fallen short
every miscalculated heroic act,
let them hear the audience’s cynical laughter at
every failed attempt at beauty

because threaded into these strands of fabric
lying worn and broken
yet lying still, visible to any that wish to still point and cackle,

threaded into these strands of fabric
lies a history of what exists
and has existed
and will continue to exist in pure genuinity
there is no purer message than that same message
repeated by mockingbirds
as they commute across boundaries
relaying news of distant lands
with no perception as to what
Romeo and Juliet story they relay
what tales of awful and imperfect heartbreak
of tragedy not tragic enough for notice
but tragic yet the same

The world has yet to learn that every story is extraordinary
because time has taken the time to
pen it into it’s eternal library of existence
Record it with a seal and testament of reality
Time has given heed to the bleeding wound and painted a scar as a sign of what was not a dream
and those who prefer dreams to reality
forget that clocks don’t work in dreams

The universe is indifferent to the imaginary until
the moment words come crawling, unashamed, across tongue and out of mouth
into the open air to be swatted and beaten down or placed in glass
and it is in that moment
that
though we may die here today
the victory becomes ours.