Handmade Coward

I am a handmade coward not fighting hard enough.

Not loving enough.

A slow setting sun…fanciful and whimsical.

My wrists…withered branches.

My dignity, a bad dream pretending to set things right.

In the bosom of a heavy load, how do the complacent go on?

Earth tumbles below and heaven cries from above.

I turn back toward home…sadness to be shared with love.

Sounds of Drifting

Sounds of my dysfunction…pales in the silence of snow drifting.

A prayer for forgiveness grows silent among the echo found in seclusion.

Among the shuffling timbers, I hear more than what is apparent.

Stumbling around my humanness…I grasp the acoustics of letting go.

Should there always be a insult from me to here?

Insulating quiet seems so rare.


Solar Glare

The cotton ball is gritty, as if seeking someone’s demise.

Open fields, though endearing, glare at me with only…true lies.

Sign, sign…everywhere a…sign.

Clearly my salvation is where it is meant to be.

And, it is only mine.