Projections

Single file, like in the native's way
to hide numbers and mourn in a slow peace.

The leftover and forward
once again make sign to a favorite son.

They pause and worship a clay idol,
as much contrite as devoted.

Forgive me friend their eyes say,
"I was not there".

Or, forget me friend,
"There was more than I could handle".

The idol responds to the
deep wishes of their heart,

projecting back upon the somber
all that they desire.

They will carry now a piece,
each a piece of the pain

and nurture a wound in proportion
to what their projection's demand.

Indebted

When once I approach a bridge
I mount my fear by extending my hand,
as I did with my father years ago.
We approached a grated expanse

and I implored he catch me should I fall.
Safely then on the other side,
he having held me the entire way,
I knew I was forever indebted.

I still don't like bridges
and I don't like admitting
that something scares me,
but I hate that debt most of all.

Resignation to a certain fact

It's intrepidity,
is resignation to a certain fact.
But it's haunting, too.

A countenance negated,
when for once a blank stare lives
as the mind in that moment,
with all blood let
and costly service rendered.

There is no roadmap for spells
concluding enduring sagas,
and the intrepid know that.

I'll admire from afar
and wonder on the strength of
those survivors as they quarter
amid the spent minefield.

They might say there is
no strength in tattered ends,
	all life is a process
	of will and action.

They might say that standing still
in the face of the unmitigated
is an admission of human frailty.

Respectively, I say:
	Let me admire.
	Let me reflect.

Stillness is strength

especially in the hour of the unmitigated.

the Vapors

We'd get so high,
project the foolish
and let the vapors
run us ragged.
Our incantatory 
howling an
extension of
iridescent smoke
plumes.
Parched and
pining, we'd
sip sublimonade
from circus spouts
and own up to
the awful,
as our tempers 
would allow.

The act of
incinerating
barriers
lovers never
broach is wild
work.
Those days are
of a kind
safer minds 
may never know. 

Wishing when

I spent my life
wishing when,
that spell whistling
at my heart.
A tug,
a tear,
and all the frosty drag it holds.

That bitter cold
a balm that numbs,
and reflecting
that a feeling
is more than
some quiet alone.

I accept that
ever after is
nevermore;
these things ourselves
tell us
that then shed
rhythmically asunder.

Each beat is a probe.
Our heart,
it's faithful prole.

And tomorrow,
as well as
all to follow,
will the frigid
beg for friction
and I beg alike?