full of fault,
the needle tangled in its own design.
Tugging at the touch exacerbates the holes,
their insignificance poked in across months, unnoticed,
coming to bloom out of the mind’s eye,
where their prior meaninglessness is magnified.
Unravel now to spill it out
or tuck it inside a crowded cupboard
threatening to buckle under its baggage.
I’ll dim the lights so you won’t see the damage.
I’ll shine a ray on the most perfect fragments I can gather,
wipe them clean and wrap them in a bow,
making rubbish into ruby.
If the right effort is swung into,
I can be a Michelangelo’s star,
formed out of rugged birth into a resurrected idol,
never cowering in crowded rooms or sneaking down alleys
in search of a fire escape’s ledge or tantalizing edge.
With my effort placed instead,
I draw my fate up in circles,
where the start is at the impetus of perpetual abandonment,
and there’s a constant loop back into eventual disappointment,
be it by my shaking hand or the forceful one of another.
Worried glances portray a sense of anxiety
that I find myself bearing as a globe,
supporting expectation of a reality where my lungs are stable.
Worried glances are spent far too often.
The last thing I hope to see is for joy to seep out of their sight.
Stay inside the shelter as I march into a storm.
Hold fast on the ropes tying down to home.
Maintain position in the long procession onward.
Waver not from opportunity just to waste it on me.
The snow batters against this world we hold up,
and it’s slipping under the frame thought to be held so tightly.
Stay to drown in biting frost that festers in every day.
Take heed to run and leave one promise:
That as I march into a storm, bracing at the door,
cease thought and commit to action.
Commit to action away.
As I march into a storm, through the door,
I will only be some time outside.
Protect your worried glances.
Retain the light inside.
I will only be some time.
( ❤ Mitch)