talk about the weather,
storm into a room
shattering the peace
that passes all understanding,
like the fragile vessel,
like the broken pottery,
some claymation caricature,
living life large,
narrow stream
and in you barge,
and rant and rave,
until you realize you are in the wrong room,
the one without a view...point,
who anointed you,
with oil that flows over your beard,
and hand sanitizer does not
count, as you listen to that song by
Blunt, and stare at every girl as they
walk, and by mouthing the words,
in hopes that the lyric comes more than
true, for that one moment, face and eyes
that
met,
angelic wings will lift you,
from where misery holds you...
no chains,
no ropes,
only hands are holding you
by your bare ankles,
the hands you no longer
recognize
as yours.