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