The flame burns high and low

Masking tape holds me at the seams
My thoughts bursting
Through to fickle reality

I purge the voices from within
Creeping to the fingertips

The caterpillar crawls on its million legs
Leaving no traces of its path
The process is endless

I seem to forget
In the acquiescence of my breath
The soaring of the gulls
The clouds gathering tears

Sometimes the sky exudes my fears
Giving birth to my certainties

I lie in the hull of time
Waiting for tomorrow
For time to grasp me
And take me seriously

My love is not a fickle pose
Nor a sour pickle
It is whole

I hover above
With widespread wings
Accepting and caressing

My voice is the churning of the stream
Limning the pebbles
Honing away your wounds

I speak to the lightning
In my attempt to mitigate your thunder

I lie in the wake of these seconds
Holding the cracked vase
Watering the thorns
Expecting them to bloom

The sun is meek
The road home winds up the mountain
And down the valley beyond the ocean

My eyes will see water
Blue on the horizon
Feet stroking the warm sand

I lie alone in the light of the candle
Shadows on the wall
My night companions


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