Wednesday, January 7, 2015
I find security in watching from windows,
viewpoints that shift but do not change.
I find sweet desperation that comes and goes,
visualizing my targets...
my glassy shooting range.
Would it surprise you to know I still smell you,
still trace your scent across currents let in?
And no wind blown hand washing is true,
nothing erases my footprints...
or where they've been.
But I'm an old soul, not easily swept from reason,
my decisions stand as a measure to the man I am.
My goals are accomplished with no need of a gun,
yet burdened by ability, vulnerable,
caught in the door jam.
I bare witness to every passion that goes unlit,
or every empty story stretched out across the line.
I shake my head in halls of ivory, loving it,
observing every foolish mistake...
satisfied to watch lest I call them mine.