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.
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?
Meanwhile, Melody Muses... 