The silver lining
is peeking out of your jacket,
a reflective motion
to adjourn;
for a man with no discretion,
your intention was never to learn.
Like a smooth stone in a river,
you’re still, grey, and cold.
Once soft as the sand,
now you stand bold,
and I burn, and burn.
I yearn to change the sunrise.
I want to take control.
I want to master Fate.
I want to rise alone.
I think I may be dying,
but it’s too early to know,
so I will keep on going
until someone asks me not to go.
The feast upon my table
was stable, sweet, and fair,
and perhaps I took more than my share.
But the intrinsic quality of nature
is its temporal limitations,
which is why your indignation,
however justified, begs attention
infrequently demanded by your profession.
A spirit who can hold an idea,
like a stalk of bamboo
too fibrous for you to chew,
nevertheless allows it to grow
and grow brittle
by what he never knew.
A spirit who can preach
but cannot sincerely pray
is many lifetimes away
yet emboldened in his reach.
The beach where I buried my selfhood,
deep in the clay, warded with driftwood,
lies the ingermane notion of evil and good,
the notion which dictates you now,
as it would
when given a painting of oil and gold.
The leaf is still falling,
the passion calling,
beguiled by the beauty of a single perspective;
Respective to members of your self-claimed collective,
this practice is one that I call into question.
Is there a second?
You missed it–
I left it,
but you did not take it,
which is to be expected.