Abstract
So frightened of what is coming.
So troubled.
So threatened.
So poised to panic,
So startled at the flash,
of their own reflection,
In a passing mirror.
Chattering and nattering,
Scratching and wringing,
Clinging and grasping,
Grasping and reaching.
Vulnerable and lonely
Misguided and confused,
About the nature of flow,
And the nature of hope.
If I come to you,
Grasping at straws,
Don't give me a straw.
Lend me your hand.
Gift me your time.
Blanket me with your attention.
Serve me with your understanding.
Show me the way to the beauty,
Of these sad circumstances.
Please.
Spare me your support for my projected fantasy,
Your soothing whitewash,
Your minty mouthwash.
Please.
Spare me your encouragement,
That it's really not so bad.
It's bad.
It's so bad,
Because I love life so much,
That I failed to notice it occurring.
It's bad,
And you can feel it.
I know because you cloak me in absorbent tissues,
And you pat my back,
From a safe distance.
While you armor yourself in steel,
While you plug, patch, and plunder,
The wreckage of my emptying heap.
It is a sad miracle,
And a happy one,
And a dazzling one,
And a terrifying one
It has always and forever been a miracle.
From the amniotic explosion,
To the crackling and crumbling,
Of dust falling gently from the last remaining,
Splinters of bone,
Cooling slowly on the bare cinder brick inferno.
From the perfect arc of a three-point shot,
To the broken heart of a foolish teen.
From the ecstatic thrill of an exploring hand,
Under bedsheets,
behind a door,
In the fragile solitude of dark sensation.
To the smell of sex and flowers,
And the decaying stench of life cycling onward.
From the drone of monotonous complaints,
To strain of work and balm of routine,
And frustration,
And indignation,
And righteousness.
From the breathtaking sweep of selflessness,
To quaint arrogance and unruly ego,
And kindness,
And cruelty,
And confusion.
It's a miracle.
It is.
From top to bottom,
From the beginning to beginning,
To the end.
When I grasp at straws,
Please.
Don't give me one.