serious, as a shirt pressed crisp,
white as white
face the mirror, reluctant but open eyed
imperfect, soured by habit;
see as if feeling weren’t there
magnifying yesterday, up close to see the pain
I quiet my thoughts, judgment spills through me like a sieve
the sun was forecast to follow the rain;
I seek to learn, to know, to be, to practice;
even that which is unnatural
diffuse the jagged sparks of old;
see the crust form around the pool of pain
tenderly surround your inner plight, the truth as if your heart set that goal, the good
the path which invites you, the link from eye to heart
prevails through only art
just as it should
the burdens of change what’ true fine art
my outward body pleads with inward soul
<suddenly it's less heavy to lift each foot, and life the endless stroll becomes an adventure
I wear my wrinkles pridefully
as the masochist that used to thirst for blood, is busily collecting the wrinkles of time, no longer wishing to cover up the scars
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