Sweaty Palms At Sunrise
I feel the turn of fickle stars in my palms,
wrenching their way out,
challenging the ambition of a sinner's grasp.
It all falls loose;
sand at the feet of eternal eyes,
staring back into the shadows of memory.
Dreams struggle for breath,
suffer desperation, lack of color.
And in their whisper I squint like
an old man trying to find his way
back to the trail's head.
But in these woods I have no bearing;
no point of reference, only empty hands left wanting,
too arthritic to hold any sort of luster
or salt of tomorrow's promise.
And so, I am left to wait...
Suspect to the charm of a menacing horizon
that promises nothing but a burning reminder
of what I could not hold onto.
-James Kelley 2014, All Rights Reserved.
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