Intention I
Our laps
are dust laden
with the years
that hope has
helped to drag
us through:
layer after layer of 'the just enough'
and I know everyone loves to love the words:
I hope,
one hopes,
we hope,
but 'Hope' is a mask,
stuck to the face of what is,
sputtering in place,
a temporary salve;
it is a flawed thing,
a temporary salve;
it is a flawed thing,
a slant of cupric light,
inherently weakening
beneath the weight
of its own shimmer,
like a propping up of dreams
on stilts of spinning twine,
unwinding in the clear broad
stare of the conscious mind
and in this dawn of clarity,
my intention is to dislodge
the specter of surface
the specter of surface
at the behest of the only
word that matters; joy.
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