Can this really be the final straw?
Will the decisive blow be lent at last?
What will come of it, to me or you?
Will the sky always be blue?
And if it remains that shade
will the clouds stay high
up in the sky
or fade right into
nothing just like the
air between the bubbles
that sift between the fingers
of the girl who swam away
through the pool of
chemical reactions
triggering thoughts of
fallen trees
with splintered sides
and wilting leaves
and scattering lives of
frail spines whose
skin is transparent
as the blistering sunshine
with beams of crashing dreams
warming trailing streams
of weeping rain upon my hand
catching ashes in a palm
from burning grains of sand
dripping down the glass of hour
dashing hope for slaves of somber
climbing mountains of
stifling pressure
all the while losing power
treading paths through
aching jungles
balancing weight on
silky webs
delicate guides of distinct dreads
with central queens who eat
their mates
for thinking they were safe
from harm of greater strength
When will the end be near?
Should we live in naive fear?
or lose ourselves in worlds of other
portals so unclear
that even ants in single file
lose their way
to disappear

To those who
understand,
I offer you my
hand, and grant
you with a gift
of unstifled,
true revere






I've chosen to not tell the meaning
of this poem to anyone, ever...
For personal reasons, I guess.
Let me know what you think it
means, if you want.

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