What armor need truth? Truth is indefensible, indiscriminate, indispensable.
No monsters exist beyond truths reach, no obstacle can withstand its might, but few fear its conquest.
For all its weight must be wielded, and fewer still have such strength. They speak its name, list its dimensions, even threaten, but seldom brandish it; betting everything on mere intent.
Like a young heart beneath mortality’s veil, truth soothes with practicality, overwhelms with certainty, and in their embrace, reveals;
truth needs no armor. No monster endures truth, not even truth itself.
Desire, the fruit of patience, overripe and waiting, wrapped tightly, throttling the trees with coiled potentiality.
One can but see me, and be sated. I cannot be consumed, burned cared for pruned adorned.
What flesh I know, is only a passing glance. Ignorance or incompetence, either meet at the same end.
The dirt though, is amorous as I stretch into all its nuance, settling that wayward soul. The sun showers me with praise, it’s light on me in subtle places, echoing my fingers in the earth.
But still, I hide a quiet passion, to move through the world as you, create as you.
I put that lust in sweet oils, ambitions charming enough for honey, for dew drops, but too much, far too much for you.
On your skin that passion burns with envy, raises the flesh in sour complexions, cries out in pain, but at least- a part of me is with you. At least- you won’t forget my name.
Not every day affords the luxury to write, yet it persists, ever eager. Hours consumed by obligations, endless tasks and responsibilities; yet it is we who determine value, who make the exchange.
Each meaningless line, inherently out of context, out of time, just marks on a page, only named when needed; given a value defined by desperate minds, but worthless absent an observer.
Sometimes, I can’t see past the scratches, words I know, that know me, look strange and uncalled for; a line of ships off a virgin shore, hoisting unfamiliar flags, smoke billowing from their cannons.
I defend myself with anger, taking from it that worthlessness, as if I owned it all along, falling on that sword. Surely, the word will make sense in time, I’ll recognize it; it, me.
Like crossed eyes finding their place, I’ll remember its name, where it came from, what it is.
Was it the Spring; verdant grass and bicycles, retreating snow drifts running?
Was it the Summer; sun kissed skin peeling like wallpaper, snow cones and ice cream, the school year a rising heatwave far away?
Was it the Autumn; piles of leaves from dead trees, restless evenings in costume, warm drinks and warmer friends, arriving, though we know not where from?
Was it the Winter; snow forts and ice skates, long sober hills on steel sleds, Styrofoam clouds of frozen breath, a mumbling fire near a warm bed? Was it any one thing or was it everything?
Bobby climbed the stairs to look for a chair, to discover the places where gifts hide, tall realms where secrets quietly reside. Mother would caution, “Look not there, beware.”
Bobby’s father, his mother had declared, carried the chair to the attics embrace, the darkest nook of the old house’s space. Sister would oft’ warn, “Look not there, beware.
the bugs that settle there will breed nightmares,” but Bobby, bold and defiant as can be brushed off spiders, ants, and worms with no plea. Though everyone warned, “Look not there, beware,”
Bobby’s daring heart refused to be impaired. He opened the door with a hint of pride, only half noticing what was inside, part of him begging, “Look not there, beware.”
Not glancing up he claimed the lonesome chair, grasping it by its sprawled and feeble legs, and tugging it past the ones over head, while still muttering, “Look not there, beware.”
The commotion startled his mother fair, she rushed up the stairs towards the vexing sound, and was devastated by what she found. No one had warned her, “Look not there, beware.”
She screamed out in fear, grief and despair, and grabbed Bobby’s face, veiling his young eyes. stumbling through sobs and anguished cries, pleading with Bobby, “Look not there, beware.”
Since that dreadful day Bobby only stares, at his food, his hands, the water’s surface, even at his father’s funeral service, he just hushed softly, “Look not there, beware.”
Grow Gray With Me 