Just a single touch could send it back
back beneath layers of skin
skin grown harder by the day
that cannot be pierced by either blade or thumb tack
but with a word can be so thin
broken open; beneath the shell of color, found to be gray
words like knives can be sharp, but unlike them leave no sightable mark
to note that whence they were here--or after, show signs of fading
blood or ink written but not seen on paper--an invisible play
that creates as a manifest the form and function of being
broken, bent, and twisted at the seams
riddled with untangible holes, in a puddle of nothing they lay
feeling as invisible as the pain which breeds the thoughts
a cycle that continues, one into the other and again
looking for an exit and finding there is no way
Out of the mind, out of the soul, out of the moment
The crutches given only make the darker parts more sinister
The only way to make it work is to turn everything gray.
Then there are no true shadows
There is no true light
but you can at least survive another day.
A cripple crutch, which though it helps to forge on
only makes it harder to stand on your own
You look for help and hope but where have you to pray?
Struggle is meant to make you strong but you fall deeper with each new addition
fallen pray to the common sin of the partition--silence by not being seen
and by not being seen you become the shade in your heart and give in to it's way.
it swallows all your manifests, your love, your crutch
and in that silence are worn as a symbol--the path turned wrong
all that for something so small, so small for a struggle so long.
