Secret Meditations

Acid free paper mirrors whisper

my secrets back to me and

the horror of my words stems

from their inherent value.

Introspective inks stains

drip down to my bare thighs

in the beating beams of

bittersweet sunlight.

It occurs to me that every

speck of anything is as much

me as all but my thoughts,

my mind is its own, alone.

But when's the last time I rested

my hand on the bark of a tree

and pondered on its place here

or its connection to me?

Tree skin meditation allows

me to ponder its place and

relation to mine, will we be

cut down or will we be fine?

Redefine what is exceptional

and make space for the mundane.

Every home I had was empty

save for memory.

I'm not significant enough

to be significant in a world

of characters, I am the universes

marionette, plaster cast.

Empty barrels last the longest

and every trunk ring brings me

closer to the edge of a surface

I had no place on to begin with.

Perhaps my only chance at

unity is the melding of catastrophe.

To die is all we share and so

perhaps that's all I have to offer.

The melancholy mornings of

inevitable slavery to time

somehow keeps my feet moving

and yet I don't know where I'm going.