Sunday, December 11, 2011


Voices scramble thoughts all over the forehead
Like a kool aid rash from hair dying.
What can you tell from fallen locks
Collected and wrapped in prayer flags
Storied at the feet of marriage storks?

Will they take on some meaning?
The silly looks, smiles and smirks reveal nothing.
A black toque hides,
The altar carefully kept to honor
Nothing less than a life of sand and ash.

I am tired, beloved, of opening my heart
To the want of eyes,
Vibrating fully into empty space
Marking time.
I rub the darkness alone, here, under
the cracking plaster of the cold. 

:: Note :: ... tired ...