all the boundaries I’ve known
since I was born,
the noble expectations lurking, nimbly hidden
there
among the do’s and don'ts, the just-because-it’s-rights
or that-would-be-bad-forms. Or what about
the mirror
of the Word of God that’s miraculously free of streaks
some days
but mostly, since my hands are soiled, is smudged.
I’m judged as wacky by a world who could not possibly
perceive
my deepest needs and wants,
the things I crave to see
become reality.
Freely I confess I’m judged more harshly
by my
inner inclinations interrupting, finding fault
because
I hesitate to face the mist alone, to step out of my comfort zone,
cocoon of who I think that I should be,
must be, who I am
that someone else decided long ago.
Shadowed
by those braver few I love who’ve forged
new lives in steel
and looking at them from the outside
how they seem
to thrive, surviving all the drama they created
while I’m waiting here, just sitting with a pile of gold
that glistens
but is soft and therefore useless as a sword.
Even more of those I see seem equally uneasy but
still
they choose to take a chance and push parameters
to reinvent their universe at will. I wanted to believe
the year before had whispered promises of change.
I thought
I heard them once or twice upon the breeze
but no.
The hope was just a self-inflicted wound
that’s healing as we speak,
the scar serving as reminder
every day that almost all
I ache for’s just beyond my reach
and ever will be thus.
The truth is sometimes cold but it’s enough.
And when I light
the match
and when you gently blow
upon the embers of my dreams
the fire’s as blazing hot
as it is short-lived.
But if I’m honest –
and why wouldn’t I be honest, raised by southern saints –
I wonder if the wine I drank tonight’s responsible
for all this introspection?
Or if it was the key to open up
the golden box inside my heart and hold it up,
examining
the what ifs and the maybe sos
that sparkle even as the glowing coals that are my dreams
grow dim
and I am drifting off to sleep once more.
