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Here you stand in my shadow, because I won’t stand close enough to be in yours.

There is so much lip service here that I cannot keep track of my own vows.

You are really not one for Valentines.

You are more of a four-chambered heart sort of guy;

Peering through ivory ribs sticky and bruised;

You watch lungs filling with air that I only exhale to abuse.

You watch as I force curses and slander out from my paltry bellows,

Between my lips and onto all my fellows.

I sign my name to paper hearts and pink, lace-edged cards with cupid and his little feathered darts,

All with your name encased in little cherubim arms,

But every time they reach you, when you pluck them out of the air a flame burst from between your finger tips and you sigh.

All my promises are chaff so you wait for me to offer up something with meaning.

Whispering the only promise that matters, of your offered new beginning, beautiful and gleaming.

It seems so far away and my knees know so very little of kneeling;

Less so does my proud neck know to bow itself in your presence.

I always choose to play the ignorant peasant.

Who thinks himself a king.

Who thinks herself a ruler over all the things she sees.

Here is the secret every one knows in their soul – though not the light, playful thing we lie to ourselves about –

The heavy, thick, truth that lives hot in our bones:

We are not in control of a single thing.

We are all tumbling about giving each other paper cuts that leak deep, sorrowful, broken things from our tattered sleeves.

There has to be some one else that can make sense of this mess and we know it.

Some one above the smoke of our high efficiency satisfaction factories.

Cities topple their brethren for something called politics.

People slaughter the spirits of their peers for things like compliments.

Even inside ourselves we rend our hearts bare, and bloody, against faith for dominance.

We stamp through our decimated numbers like lumber jacks.

Felling trees for the fun of it;

Even though we know under the show we are just lumbering jack-asses because our pain needs a front on it.

It should not be a wonder to any of us that we feel surrounded by haze.

Our false, paltry promises of praise cannot reach heaven in their own faulty blaze.

Without external aid our silver is dross laced.

So around us we have this smoke screen and between us and it some eldritch idea that if we cannot see the door at first glance,

It is not our fault we stay and dance our dangerously self-worshiping dance.

How can you stand it, to cast your eyes out and find us?

Knowing what you will see as I waste so much of what you sacrificed for me?

Maybe that is not how you see it.

How and what you value are a way high above my ways.

Maybe you are still here just because I need it.

Maybe because you are the one I need to learn to believe in.

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3 Comments

  1. This is deep and thought provoking and I am so proud of you.
    Love Dad

  2. I’m printing this off. Bravo, BJ. You’ve got a gift, girl.


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