Dust

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You hold your head high

on a neck stiff with the starch of arrogance;

you may live at an elevated altitude,

but your collar is as blue in the shade as any other,

your substance is as much dust as mine.

If you will own your weaknesses,

embrace the molecules

which bleed when torn,

perhaps –

perhaps our souls could

fill the same sea,

our waves could curl on distant shores

and make of foreign pebbles

a new form of

dust.

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You Say You’re Broken

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You say you’re broken.

Fallen.

Damaged.

You say you long for lofty places

but you’re stuck here in the trenches.

What if falling

was the first step in rising?

What if breaking

set you free to evaporate and soar?

What if your damage

and misplacement

and confusion

were the aqua-duct

to the world’s Water Cycle?

You say you always dreamed of living on a rooftop –

what if you were meant

to join molecules on the moon?

Until you let go

of what you say,

can you be?

Butterflied

pinebrilliance

Wrapped

in my shroud,

 I am blind to Your brilliance.

Larval squirmings, procedural dues, envelop

mind and consume corpse so that all I feel is the pain

of becoming; the razor-edge ritual, this

infernal breakdown of internal structure,

this corpuscle soup I slaver and

squirm in throttles

all impetus.

But

in order to fly,

legs must be leashed.  In order to soar,

wings must be hammered thin as air.  Remake me.

Reset each molecule, retune each cell, that each atom

would sing the frequency of its conception, that

restoration and healing would croon cocoon.

That larval limping and caterpillar

crawl would collapse, gutted.

And the writhe, be

 butterflied.