Awash
some souls can’t be reached from here.
It isn’t planned that way,
it just becomes.
doors are opened, doors are closed
we seldom see a fish swim backwards
more than several feet.
perhaps they just tread water
until their stream rolls by.
bells never stop mid-swing,
mid-ring, mid-everything.
rain falls upward
in weeping dreams
souls fall down
awkwardly awakened by
what many call their life.
I want to paint a broken cup,
to make it whole
but flowers don’t un-grow
they simply die
or maybe not so simply after all.
We’re all caught up in the wiggle and grin
of lives held together
by what’s called a “safety” pin.
when there’s nothing really safe
about you after all.
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