The Tree Bark Shoved Into My Heart

A drop of sunshine broadens the ground and shines like a coal upon the blazing street. And I am enjoying the last of the wine which tastes as good as the tree bark shoved into my heart. The brown of the tearless eyes corrupt the message swooshing from the lips. I am the growing river which slides like a storm into the shore. Some voices cry against the wind, others shout in support of it. I am neither for or against anything. A crucifix dangles from my neck. It was a gift from the children. They grow up so quickly. They grow up like weeds which have flowered despite the thistles and thorns. They call them wild-flowers. They call them uncontrolled. They define them in a multitude of labels so that confrontation can be erased. I am as defined as the next man, as shapeless in my exterior as a dripping candle sloshing wax into a plate. A letter waits for me in my former mailbox. I understand it contains the fabric of my thoughts. I cannot imagine such a mailing, and one defined for me alone. Stick a needle in the arm. Drive a wedge between the heart. Life is a process of adjusting, of correcting attitudes which do not comply with the flavoured faces of the people hiding in the dust. I am forgiving but not forgiven. I am silent in my loudness which becomes my armour against the nestled carpet of denial.