Tumbling

Circles and drops dripping of belief.
Permanent impressions resist change with
the strength of 500 horses,
worshiping the creator
in a house of mirrors,
dreading the enemy
created to hide in darkness.

Majestic vision clouded
by doubtful thinking
They call her blind faith
and blame her parents for
her failure to jump
onto the moving train
carrying the weary travelers
to a place of the deaf and dumb.

Inspired to crawl in the dirt,
drinking muddy water
and obscuring his calculated effort
to play a tune
that will draw a crowd
in the chaos of possibility
and holding onto the hope of a hot air balloon
wishing it would carry him away
from the fear of falling down;
Down to the grave
where the ghosts play
with his forgotten dreams and discarded desires.

Hugging the truth with his last breath,
he moves to find the concrete block
to keep her from being swept into the unknown.
Hustling to stay
and dragging her heels to avoid being seen
as wrong or misplaced
and forgotten with the rest of his sex
in the setting sun
and the grave he dug for their future.

Hopeless, save for the glimpse of awareness
that gazes through the luck of the draw
and wonders at the gusts of patience
from her allowing the lies
to roll over her mind
with the might of a school of krill;
following her gut
and asking for another moment to dash
into the fray
and prove she too can make a difference.

Stuffed with falsehood,
he vomits the lure he entertained for decades
finally facing his loneliness
and forlorn form
of showing up late to the party
of dancing beasts.
He asks for this opportunity to step up
and pour his monsoon of compassion
on the desert planted with thorns and thistles.
She accepts the offer to play
and practice her skills managing attention
with the precision of grace.

Knowing that even though she is by herself,
she is not alone.

A.C.