Mosaic

Life is like a glass mosaic 

With broken colored shards of glass

in unspoken truth,

Hardened as our days pass. 

But oh, when light shines through it

We see ourselves on full display 

And the breaks and hues tell what you know

About yourself. 

That broken piece shines so bright. 

And your eyes are drawn to it. 

Funny, thought that was what was hurting so much... why is it up there now?  

Acceptance, you realize, is like the sun shining bright through the window. 

And, with you all broken and put back together, Everyone enjoys you in their window.  

Hammer, Anvil, & Stirrup

When you are born without something 

That you should otherwise normally have 

Then you are.... special. 

The world is full of these people, like us. 

We don’t talk about it, unless asked. 

We live out days full with perception. 

Our brains active with compensation. 

Out in front of every conversation 

A sight that could not be seen

A sound not fully heard 

And a brain busy with the tasks of 

Seeing and hearing without eye or ear. 

Would you be able to spot someone like this?

Such a depraved person,

Who’d never had complete sight,

Nor hammer, anvil, or stirrup. 

So sharp would be the measure of all taken in,

With the one set had left, 

they’d best us all. 

My Smoking Carbine

This gun is smoking.

Whirring sounds above my head didn't sound like what I'd expected.

I'm in my foxhole, and I'm scared.

When I was young I'd think about this.

It was simple to come to a conclusion, about living, about dying.

And might and sharp cunning skill carried the day and adulation,

and fruits of all endeavors toiled at the surpassing of others.

But I have shown myself what I can do.

And I'm in my foxhole, now and again.

I'm scared, because nowadays I level my gun and pull the trigger,

They die, and I do too.

Arrow

Behind my eyes

Some things others might notice...

Might mistake me for being dismissive.

Settled in my chest above my stomach and behind my heart,

A heat of sorts which drives my nerve,

Keeps me alert.

Sometimes it wells up 

But I'm not sad.

I'm not what you think.

I'm an arrow, nocked with aim.

Beacon

See me through the thickets of brush, from the hill where you hide.

And you sneak out late and go further than the night before.  Yes, I shine on.

And those journeys you had through time and countries.  You wondered about me.  Me, here just the same.

Out there you know and you kick all the same.  You kick and kick.

Rain comes, and false promises, false gods, and wells without water telling you about hope and vindication.

Further out you stride.

Where, one day, a light shines where you can see, see your knuckles, bloody.  You wash your hands.

And then, alas, you look up.  And you see me still here, shining, leading you home.  Your home, ordained with expectation.

And after all these years, you finally see me, yourself calling out to the person you tried to be.

Welcome.