sandpaper corpses
airbrushed skin grafts
hair that flows against the grain
deflated eyes
marbled gray lips
vacant ears
ambition guarded by fear
eating favors by the mouthful
we do what we want
and want what we feel
and feel what isn't ours
what's left
devoid of moisture
each heart scrapes
squeezing through brick alleys
chasing a thief that won't be found
O, to live
to breathe
to die,
and be consumed!
what taste shall linger
of this bittersweet life?
Love, if we can manage it.
Hope, if we preserve it.
Bravery, if we can muster it.
Joy, if we believe it.
Love is found in breadcrumbs and milkpails,
not stocked fridges.
A keystone, compressed and constant,
rigid under each bridge we cross
Hope rings through funeral bells,
echoes in vaulted ceilings,
singing words a sermon can't
if you choose to hear.
Bravery is looking in the mirror
with a smile
Accepting victory in white enamel,
defeat in every wrinkle.
Joy is peanut butter ice cream,
and campfire smoke,
hands warm from touch and
cheeks weary from smiling.
I used to live
thinking life could be lived from a balcony
observing, critiquing, people-watching
until it got too hot or too dark or
my coffee got cold.
Life as a traveler bears no such convenience,
but
the breadcrumbs taste better,
I make faces in the mirror,
and when the bells play my song---
Those who I met on the road
will hang up my muddy, grey trainers.
I'll still smell like campfire,
and they'll eat peanut butter ice cream for me.
