Reckoning

All of me is uncertain.

As to...

Who you are.

Who you will be.

And who I am to guide you.

I am half the path.

A piece of the truth.

And left to you.

When I was only young,

And youth had no ego, nor temperament...

nor favour to ask.

I found you knocking on the door.

I know I will answer, but sometimes question why you would be at the door.

At the starting of the week, be it mine or yours. You will awaken to this turbulent flight of life that bears nothing more than dreams, contempt, martyrdom and appetizing tidbits of happiness.

You will be forced to question and qualify what it is you see and feel.

You will be forced to sift through the daily dealings of influence, the largest of which will be an all consuming media...

be it whatever media.

begging you to become it's passive observer.

daring you to not speak when you need to.

telling you to believe what it has made you see.

It will be troublesome. It will be heartbreaking. It will make you wonder what this is all about. Why we're all here and what good is to come of your action or inaction.

To think this will always be alright. To feel it will be just as fine. To be absrobed by it and lost in it...

And then it has become sin.

Immaculate you are not. Yet born of sin, you are neither.

Both leaves from a tree.

Sharing the soak of the storm,

Drying in the light of the sun.

Never apart but in space and time

I dedicate this to you, as I guess my way and leave branches and twigs to blaze my trail

Accept

Granite laced visions

Of Truculent Truth

Earthborn fissures

Of violent proof

The chemistry of all that is not.

And the Alchemy of all that is distraught.

A phalanx of trees,

Hedges for pawns.

Pedicured feet

on Manicured lawns.

Bury me between the river and trees.

I wish to poison the creek

with my own seed.

And lay the foundation more solid then stone.

And have my son document the road

on his own.

An occasional shiver

An expected glare

Live for all emotion

Accept what is there

From Daffodils to Dandelions

In but a slow and steady dirge.
Our sweet song of pity and lament.

Gather our hearts in stages and fragments
And pump forth the blood that is coagulated
And stagnant.

Be it time,
For sands, grains of rice and battery fueled arms only measure what eludes us

And how far we imminently remove ourselves from a moment.

If it weren't for the daffodils,
It would be the Dandelion that brings colour to the summer.

And in this summer, not a flower has been planted in this garden.

Her last march down the aisle bore her no matrimony nor communion,
But solemn prayer as her presence waxed and waned
Like the gibbous moons.

What is a tear, if it is not shed?
What is love, if a heart hasn't bled?


If it weren't for the daffodils,
Her coffin would be bare.

And to her grave...
bearing memorial

Stand the dandelions

for her care