From a Distance

This isn’t the time to look at him

Outstretched arms, more limp than taut,
absorb the overwhelming applause
of strangers

Sweat beads glisten
under the new lights;
you knew they would

It is easy to find him;
he is looking at you;
that’s the trick

Hold steady now;
It’s almost over;
Does it feel good?

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Before It Ceases to Matter

Remember how you once were
the ice cream vendor
on a hot summer day?

A smile…

And then your sunken eyes
reflect the truth
the way the sea recedes
and reveals empty shells.

Aren’t you a shell?

A hardened hollow structure
of vestiges from an ambitious past,
crudely assembled by unsure hands.

The years have caught up with you
and left much behind,
littering your memories
at each familiar turn.

The Transition

Surely one day
I’ll roam the streets of Guadalajara
the way it befits them.

Now, bound by my feet,
subject to my senses that
influence more than just

the purposeless splash of colour,
the true sentence,
the unremarkable feeling or detail,

I recognize the irony
of being imprisoned within
my scaffold of convenience.

The way is long and unfamiliar,
as far adrift from the world
as my understanding of it,

and as free of inhibitions and restraints,
as I might never be comfortable with.

During an Interlude from the Mundane

The rough cracked undergrowth
doesn’t hurt much
now that a clearing has appeared
for a while

The water is familiar and beautiful,
a deep well of buried impulses;
I lie beside and take long draughts

I know the forest awaits,
but I am scared of the trees.
Can you distinguish amongst them?
Perhaps, that’s for the best.

I would be a fantastic tree,
yes I know and many say so
while others ask why I left the clearing
and why I shall again

The water tastes wonderful.
I’ve felt its power before and
made promises, taken vows
and I shall do so again – of course

I know you can’t help me keep them.
Solitude, here, is prized and cursed,
and like always, leaves me unsure.