Beauty’s ashes once removed. Optimism sliding off like saddles on a bounding horse whose fueled fear is banging all the trees in forests, shaking them eternally. Motion’s pony cornered often. Cougar knives in glistened rows. Edges browned by tragedy and missing limbs like suckers of a promise dream that God had given Mom and Dad, then pulled away so very fast, it broke and snapped like sugar peas. The ancient rhyme of mariners, a teardrop chorus rising, well, despite my efforts silicone to stop the long stampeding roar. I was too much celery seed. Writing checks for surgeries was just the only, lonely brand of dental floss we had in hand. The chalice of endurance stayed. Its fragrance unmistakable as honeysuckle on a vine. I would worship rise above like totem poles or temples built upon a dune of shifting sand. Writing this is tilting urns. Silk worms spinning something that I knew, I fought, I had to catch so I could let it go again. The pestilence of perfect thighs. Reversing all the inner-plagues. A doorknob with my fingerprints, but very, very hard to turn.
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