skinny shell bones, or, life

these,
      shells. those,
bones. this,
      skin. they,
remainders:
      reminders of
what once was
      again. could be.

life,
      it happens.
suddenly, as if
      slowly watching,
documenting time
      and its passing,
from this to that.
      shadows are
echoes of light,
      blinded hindsight.
life happens,
      and i am
in it, motionless
      and on fire.

i know it is
      too late, too
painful to admit,
      but i need
to be understood.
      things fall apart.
tides come,
      tides go.
hearts break,
      dreams go.
dreams unspoken lead
      to hearts broken.
i do not have
      answers. explanations?
just a fool. understand.
      i was not meant
for this. though
      i have tried and failed,
i can only say
      i want to believe.

in me? i have been
      proven wrong already. 

conundrum

i don't believe every
thing i say.
that is my apparent
paradox.

i don't see myself
the same as how i used to.
that is my apparent
parallax.

and i don't believe every
thing i used to say
about how i see myself
or believe every
thing i see in myself
about what i say.

apparently that is
a paradoxical parallax.

the spain of my sorrows, for federico

the blood is black.
there is wine everywhere,
bloody ferment spilled:
scattered firmament.

those bull’s horns cut through
a starry sky, devastating.
that waxing reflection approaches.
tell the moon to forget who I was.

were there ever fragrant oranges,
castanets of a frightened child?
who calls forth from this dark,
shroud of torment i bear?

the shouted silence!
the musical sorrow!
oh, sunken heart,
find your wings.

there is blood everywhere,
in the wine, the hourglass
of night, and across the moon
my blood scatters the firmament.

who?

was it all a lie then?
mother, who am i?

that child you nurtured
under a bloody cross,
he only found innocence
by the creeks of his youth.
solitary, single-minded,
he inherited a forested world
no longer his.

oh, to be born a man
in a man’s world, with a heart,
a suit of armor
and a blank map.

who have i become?
what have i inherited?
a constant dream of return,
from these selfish prisons
to that innocent creek
in the diminishing woods.
broken compass or blank map,
i follow the creeks and rivers,
discovering the sea.

mother, who am i?

forested

this forested wandering,
through wonders
concealing hidden layers,
under truth, buried
within emotion less
thoughts bleaker
than this far side
of sight, nearer
to extinction.
indistinct. thinking
of the end. it’s
a road oft traveled.
through this
forested time.

some moon smiles
overhead, or
cries its silvered
breath.
we make mistakes or
commit crimes, sin
sideways and forget
our ways
of redemption.
needing help. hands
tied like tongues.
bound like promises
to break bones.
i can’t help but think
i’m alone in this.