You have painted me honey.
Sweet, kind, and sticky with
Dependency.
Not the bird others have said
Me to be, with my heart and
Wings beating furiously against
Window confinements.
I put my heart of hearts within the
Clumsy, rugged hands of others
And become fearful when their
Fingers close in on the ticking
Organ.
I have painted us running
Shoes.
Worn soles and compressed
Recesses.
We fear the fickleness of the
Universe and the beings who
Inhabit it, so we leave people
And never look in our rearview
Mirrors.
If there was a book of love and
Healing we would indulge its very
Carcass.
Drinking the marrow of information
And emotion and we would pray to
Finally have the strength to hang our
Running shoes.
I have painted you fair well and empty
Palms.
Free, roaming, and parked on the side of the
Road with your thumb pointed to the sky
Searching for new people who will never be
Your home.
