Tuesday, November 17, 2015

fumbling with this slight of hand
with what I want to give
and keep out of your view
but I was once a trickster too
when I was only known
by the name the world calls you

and hunger hidden in the smoke
and vanished in the mirrors
was the illusion for getting by
when no one calls the starving
to the table for the feast
but charity abandon
and the ones who pick the bones
of weak

but now when words are wells
that get drawn from far too deep
how do I keep from casting up 
the needs and all the wants
when the danger in the sentiments
has always been the echoes
of not far enough to hear
nor close enough for heard
to know just what was said

and all these things are spilled
upon the wind and turned 
to daggers made of ice
so that while one hand is trying to divine
the purest of the fire
to thaw the words to getting through 
the other burns incineration 
to cull the reach 
of the selfish in desire

and then somewhere 
because the world has made me tired
of a heart played like a parlour game
and the ways I've tricked myself
I get the two confused
with one hand numb and frozen
and the other charred and burned

and then all I can hope to be
is courageous here instead
in the humble way that honest only can
and say that I am just a woman
trying to forget herself
for all but what her love can send
and still the wanting is the fuel for flames 
and the words land chill-laced 
with the wind

and I am trickster nevermore
when cold arrives 
where intent was warm to send
and the heart here burns 
and beats 
and then it burns again

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