I never really know why I am here…again.

The things that set it off—a sharp report

That starts the pistons of my mind

chugga cha chugga cha chugga

that pound away at who I am

and leave a bare exposed—like sand

after all the shells are washed

Away

–

It goes to center—deep inside the core

Of who I am (or who I thought I was)

And drags away the periods,

The commas and excitement

And leaves behind a question mark

A speck of glass that stayed behind

After all the shards have been swept

off

–

The deepest dyes: the ink that that

should replace my blood

the lush creative tropic of imaginative hope

just seems to disappear

and leaves behind a sand dune flat

and radiates the bitter sun

and waterless expanse upon my

life

–

It’s lonely in my hole, a bit, but better far that way.

Some griefs carry best alone,

No words can solve the ache

That Providence declared your part

To yoke you to the Cross.

The times you need a soul—other than your own—

Are times no human can get flush

To where the raw has been.

And as the pain subsides it

goes

–

Somewhere water flows like silk—

running up the hill

And tress are green and rich and full

And children play in sand and rightly think

That they are architects.

And any dream that they can make

Turns play into a world they live inside until they’re old

And someday…not too long away… I hope Ill make it

up.