Find Meaning in Self
To the wind,
How it moves me (the leaves and branches of a dead tree).
Do you sing along with petals of the daisies,
Do you whistle and chime the metal that dangles from my tree?
Little a chance you gave me,
To feel whole once again,
She told me,
No you see the moon is bright tonight and the rain not brittle in my fingers.
Well yes of course again,
But oh boy the waves they crash into walls of mountains,
So will I.
Oh but where I had once stood fractured from the poorly nutritioned sediment,
I now reach deep into the rocks and grab hold of diamonds,
They are my eyes (the way they twinkle in the night to lend an eye to a blind man stumbling),
And so too are you blind!
Blind to not see what I have done with the spare time you offered,
With the absence of darkness and oxygen in my brain,
I learned to absorb the water from the rock and pull from thin air my food,
And my self-worship.
You cannot stand to rip free even the bare of the fucking leaves (which are green by now I'm sure),
from my limbering arms so tedious and warm,
For they GRASP the blue blood that seeps into veins made of green and darkest of greys,
To give light,
To my once believed nonexistent eyes.
Oh but bestow to me the blood I own!
You may say,
But all is well,
For the future remains in the heel of my foot dug so deep into my veins as to pierce my heart.
But the blood is good,
Though I had been taught of it's evil and wicked ways,
And it beats,
Travel to the edge of a cliff and gaze off it to the waves that writhe below,
See if you can find meaning in the movements in sync with the fingers of a minute hand.
For I have.
Originally Written 1/15/17