fibrous hairs

I can feel you.  I can feel the pressure as you arrive, and the release as you leave.  You attempt to peel the layers at your leisure, unable to thrive, unless others cease to believe.  But, I can feel you.  The tiny fibrous hairs on the back of my neck, the dilation of pupils, and a stilling of my heart.  An empathy for the widespread despair which lacks a look-out deck, a few scruples, and a willing start.  There are no horns, save the paintings.  There may not even be a grimmace or a wink.  Each book with care warns against the unrestraining and malice in the thoughts we think. 

Yet there are at least two sides to every story.  I can try to love my neighbor and my enemies.  I can try not to have enemies in the first place.  I can try, amidst the push and shove to stay the course, and still end up in the worst case.  It isn’t me that is good or great.  It isn’t you that wouldn’t wait.  The bell tolls and waves kiss the shore.  And you couldn’t hate the smell of souls who wish for more.  The silence gives clues that the heart cannot redirect.  And the chaos of the day gives way to night.  The one we pay keeps wanting to collect, and the brink of dismay lives grave to light. 

I can feel when I say that I do not wish to feel.  I can see when I know I do not wish to see.  Collect the pieces of my peel, light them, taste them, and shine my core.  Give me a hint of the amazing dish to be.


Being heard, stirred, and perhaps cured by life's many hidden images and the written-spoken word.
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