Poetry Collection.

"Cold, Cold Truth."

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There, in that crevice between night and morning,
when the earth is silent
and the universe sings,
bleed the lines between metaconscious and delirium.

I read the words
until they blur into one—
a swerving streak of graphite
in unfocused eyes.
And I think, is this truth?

Is this enough?

And, yes, I even contemplate
notions that I would rather not discuss.
Even if poetry is the vessel through which the soul is liberated,
some truths are meant to remain.

No, I think
the haze in my mind
overpowers the credibility of my cognition
and the justification of my taste.

Do I feel?

No,

I think the haze in my mind
is a cold, numbing
armor,
yet warmer than a hug
all the same.

Broken, they must be—
those that shun intimacy.
Yes . . .

yes.
I must agree.

Intimacy is cold.
Stark.

Honest.

Though, I know the summer,
the warmth of the lie
sweeter than the cherry
picked ripe from the tree standing in my front yard.

I stand beside it
looking up,
up,
up beyond the roof,
out beyond the drifting clouds
until the blue of day burns my retinas.

I close my eyes.
The sun is warm upon my skin
like a constant buzzing beside the garden
in my blood.

The sun is out,
the fruit is ripe,
and I think,
how can this be bad?

And I think,
I must be.

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(December 20th, 2023.)