confession

all cynicism aside

mine will be different
where the heels of hard-worn shoes have smoothed the grain of old wood
and birds lift tenderly from rafter to rafter as though they are nothing more than shadow and light

dust thick spaces
making air lucid and visible in beams of light
like lace and vellum parchment

and maybe i won't say
i
do
as others
do
but there will be thunder and anxiety held back in the slightest touch of my toes to the floor towards some stage-like corner
invisible pulpit
and the energy that shakes in my smile will say
"i give it up"
At last

and i will inhale deeply
the way i do when the air quenches some trembling joy between my ribs and lungs

spiritual

nothing less

only the miracle drug is worth
distracting
diverting
submitting
my wanderlust
wonderlust

lonely and aimless is not a good enough reason


yes i want it: that slow-motion dance in the dim of the morning
under the eyes of the Witness
but not the desperate way a runner wants a cool drink of water
i want it the way the painter
wants just the right shade of hue for the patient brush
or she won't put a single stroke upon the canvas


no one will fulfill my needs
there is One who already does that all too sufficiently
but someone
perhaps
one day
will fulfill my
beauty

i speak like some to and fro past has me world-wizened and cynical
laughing smugly at the dreams of young
but the truth under the bark

though i don't need it
or long for it

there's a young part of me
seeking

the miracle drug