Grace

It was all a funhouse illusion:

warped mirrors, heartache confusion.

Lights twinkle dim in a music cloud,

spinning in a loud delusion.

A glass house I made with these two hands

for a man made of rolling stones

trying to rebuild with broken glass

long after the grace to let go.

Sleeping with dangerous addictions

like murderers without convictions;

losing myself to sparkling quicksand,

sweet owner of my heart’s contusion.

Red portraits painted with bleeding hands

quickly bruise the whitest of snow

A glass house I made with these two hands

for a man made of rolling stones

trying to rebuild with broken glass

long after the grace to let go.