An Honest Accounting

 Yesterday, I vaulted over mountains, skipped over rivers and found myself on the other side.

Immediately I was lost, for the horizon's framing was no longer my home.

No setting sun to flee from, no moonrise to rescue me,

All the stars were stolen, all the lights were golden, and none of them could touch me. 

I imagined myself a void, and was shocked to become empty.

With no one to avoid there was also no one to envy.

With only me myself and I, I was able to sift through the memory,

I found that the edges of that time were not held up by mountains of lies, 

but instead were bound by twin rivers of grief that streamed from my own eyes. 

Eventually my weeping cleared the scales, I adjusted the moral of my own tales.

Soaring through cycles and the ducking both the scythe and the sickle.

I imagine that is how rivers start, first as an icicle-- 

then warmed by an ever returning sun that melts ice and promises freedom.

A promise even the son can't deliver from the demons. 

Our chains are our choices, our liberation leaps from our voices.

So we must scream and make demands of not only heaven, 

but of each other. Break the chains, then break ourselves

find that the bread of the body is not indivisible 

Set hurriedly into repair but find the shattered pieces

never fit together like they did when they were unsevered.

And if all that remains is broken, 

and cannot be fixed with simple words spoken

then we have found ourselves past point of hoping.

Aspirations become delusions when untethered from the earth,

but if the torn parts within our hearts still have worth,

then maybe we can knit them together.

share my pitted mind with your broken heart

create a new kind of art.

A tapestry of of sophistry where every lie contains a truth,

a love that is reminiscent of our youth

where we could believe in things that were less than whole,

I mean after all isn't that the goal?

Find the best part of myself is inside of you,

find the strength you lost in me 

drink it down like lukewarm tea,

where the heat of fire is little more than memory. 

find some things remain bitter in spite of honey,

and some folks remain broke in spite of money,

but nobody's perfect so why bother the rejects

let people live in the imperfection of their flaws

let people be free despite the intention of laws.