My Mirror Must Be the Trowel
Your words lance through to bone, acid sizzling into every hole
I haven't filled in, yet I dig, and ponder, and dig, filling in.
I still rock where the echoes of door slammed shut, bounce around
like a crazed nut of truth, crazed distorted view, walls where none existed.
The lifeline of my life was a frail strand on the morning breeze
I could pull into view, ride like a youth jumping the ocean waves
that you sucked into the cold vacuum of your jealous ways
and not ending there, you stole the skate board, stole the waves
locked me into a endless stuffed food binge where doubt could be sweetened
but locked me further into a closed room, like a finished book
that no one wanted to read the first time or the last or ever
because it answered no questions, kissed no lips, hungered for nothing
gave nothing back to the children of the wave, children of the clouds
and then squished all the children into little mushed piles you ate
and then complained they had no blood left. I dig, with this trowel
wanting a mirror of burial, where the skies can rain down upon the muck
and quiet your words, quiet your harping, quiet your blows upon pride
and leave me a trowel upon which I can live out or die, piling scar tissue
over endless lies, over the cries of hungry children, over the cries
of forgotten waves and restore someday the laughter and surprise of life.
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