Thursday, May 25, 2017

these fingers are blistered
and calloused
reaching with sign language
that can't be heard
for what can never be touched
when what wants to be soft
must defend itself
in the battles of miscommunication

I have so little left to say
these hands of mine
making shadow puppets
in the dark
when darkness tells its story too
and shadows show
there must be light

if I could love you
then there must have always been
a part of me that held
those things too
but in the juxtaposition
you see what isn't there
instead of what there is

the shadows tell a story too
they tell there must be light
if you could look beyond
what is cast against
the armour of your wall

my medicine has never been
the bringing of the dark
but the stories one can make
of the resilience of the light

stories only understood
in the context of the glow
haloed in the outline
seeping from the blackened shapes
stories understood not only
by the unafraid
but the ones who do not hide

I am not the dark
but darkness always comes
and all the spirit can ever do
is trust in its own light
and the stories it can tell

darkness tells a story too
of tomorrows shadowed
by what we never face
or monuments painted
to stands against our fear
to leave yesterday behind
and risk the future
of kissed again by light

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