You glance up once again
from the rediscovered photo,
sellotape stained and saved
for this future finding.

You hold me yet again in
the honesty of your peaceful smile,
in that shared perfect moment
catching us all unaware.

But that was just before our fall
into confusion, into the fog
that suddenly enveloped you
and robbed us all completely.

But now you return to mind
and I can return your smile
once again.

When fighting your monsters
- watch yourself
less you become monstrous.

When fighting your monsters
- watch yourself
and arm yourself with virtue.

When fighting your monsters
- watch yourself
and shield your deep innocence.

When fighting your monsters
(and you must fight your monsters
no matter the depth of the abyss)
- watch yourself
and let your true self stand.

Little lies.
Purposeless perhaps.
Arguably with little effect,
but nevertheless, flowing
off the tongue and keypad
with little thought.
Born of habit.
Born of a child's need
to be on the front foot.

Little lies,
building up into a facade
behind which I hide
my ineptitude.

I wanna that moment of rhythm in an embrace.

I wanna those few steps across the floor
in the arms of someone who loves me,
accepts me, doesn’t want to change me,
can’t wait to see me, and see me grow,
hear me sing and laugh and dance,
someone to join my song,
someone to follow and lead me
across the uncharted floor into hope
and the joy that’s found by two hands
clasped in the dance.

I wanna that.

[not Walt Whitman]

Begin with questions
Lead with both ears
Dig for honesty
Don’t freak out at tears

Listen for the truth
Seek the 360
Never assume
Don’t judge so quickly

He pulls on the sweater, unasked for, ill-fitting and probably itchy as hell, but he knows the ritual by now and pulls until his head births and he opens his eyes ready for the chorus of smiles and laughter, but they're not there.
It's dark and the scents and chimes of Christmas are gone, he's spinning and falling in a force 10 gale battered by the sound of breaking waves.  So he reaches out for an anchor; his hands sink into a hedgerow, prickly with Hawthorn entwined with Holly, but he can't pull away and the momentum thrusts him forward through the pain into a field of sunflowers which swing their heads to face him, accusing him of trespass.  That’s when he becomes aware of distant gun fire and what looks like a star falling towards him.  Their heads duck down, forcing him to his knees and he's on all fours, his hands deep in Aunt Maud's **** in front of the fire, his head ringing, shell shocked, shaking and weeping while the family help him up.
- Easy there, Sam, you okay?  You look like hell. –
He looks around for his aunt’s face, and she smiles.
- He'll be fine, it sometimes takes us a while after our emergence from Mid Yell.  It's my first attempt at a Mid Yell and Ukrainian mohair blend.  Bring him some water.  Sam dear, have a seat and make sure you come and find me when you want to take it off, but not for a while. You shouldn't Walk the Goat too often, it confuses the soul. –
His siblings stare, full of questions and relief for their scarves as he studiously ignores them, and stares into the fire, shivering, hands prickly, the gun shots resonating in his gut and the aroma of sunflowers filling his head, knowing he needs to find that star.

Poetry is a painting
The poet the painter
The reader the beholder

Poetry is a riddle
The poet the riddler
The reader the solver

Oh, poet.
You choose the metaphor.