I can't fathom the depth required to indulge in trust.
The possibility escapes me at critical moments.
At moments of possibility,
At moments of change,
At moments of new life.

A larva.

Here is my word, hold it sacred to you. It is my life, hold it as
though, if dropped, the ground will swallow it whole.
Here is my shield, you may glance, gawk, or gaze, but
this I hold sacred for when the ground swallows my word whole and reincarnates it as everyone's air to breathe freely and wholly.

A butterfly.

You may have my word.
-----------------------------------------------------------­------
Hands stretched exposing their webs, and then
flexed into white-specked fists; and then again. And then the hands stretched. The ground unbuttoned as the word descended clawing at draped silk.

A butterfly, wings tattered.

Capture. Torture. Exploit.
--------------------------------------------------------­---------
The atmosphere was encompassed with dread and longing -
a smog of guilt, anger, and repression. Diamonds lied on their sides and bled tales that stung the ears of all in the vicinity.

A caterpillar, hope helms.

Bleed. Infect. Repeat.
---------------------------------------------------------­-------
Passerby after passerby shuffled along with wide eyes and hushed whispers. Faint feathers were pressed outward, hitting people like bricks and leaving craters behind.

A moth, lights negligent.

Judge. Sabotage. Forget.
---------------------------------------------------------­--------
Dignity lost and feeling next to naked. Covering myself with my token. My word builds; my walls build.

A larva.

Heal. Scar. Fear.
-----------------------------------------------------------­------
I can't fathom the depth required to indulge in trust.
The possibility escapes me at critical moments.
At moments of possibility,
At moments of change,
At moments of new life.

Two roads diverged in a wood
so I sat down on a bench nearby.
I watched as wanderers walked,
ambling or ambitious,
choosing their own fate.
Some stood a while.
Some sat next to me, twiddling their thumbs in ways no longer lonely,
outstretching their physical means to find a mentor or guide.
Some prevailed.
Others plopped down next to the bench, cross-legged with their heads in the hands or meditating with their fingers in the air.
I stared off for sometime.
Travelers came and went, boarding trains to near and far. Others didn't need the tracks but longed for them anyway.
I sat there for years, wearing the same old hat and coat, wearing thin elsewhere. Who do I want to be? Where am I going? What is my purpose? The only answer ever arriving in the form of some weary-eyed traveler.
We would lock eyes, expose our souls, mutter remorse for it, and they would move on.
And then I would watch the wanderers walk some more.

To store
your pain
to savor
it near.
to cradle
it close
to nurture
your fears.
to harbor
the worst
and label
"For later"
To welcome
the sorrow
to be
someone's savior.

I would have loved
to know
you searched the way
I did
That you dug for
every bit
there was to know
about me
That you scoured pages
upon pages
to see if there
was anything
you were missing from
my biography
That you hammered out
my name
in every search engine
known to
man That you wanted
to know
who I was connected
to and
how we were connected
That you
refreshed my social media
pages several
times per day just
to see
if there was anything
I forgot
to tell you. That
you calculated
the likelihood of my
emotions based
on the time and
what I
had been posting That
you thought
about my motives for
every post
every article every store
every movie
every question every curse
every call
every text every word
That you
spent at least some
of your
days completely cocooned in
the possibility
that I may be
someone entirely
different than who you
know just
for the sake of
wanting to
think about me further.
That you
might get so lost
in me
that you forget to
get lost
in you

I'm just trying to find substance that can't be smoked, ingested, or injected.
You would want to think I love running marathons. That I'm some passionate ultra enthusiast, or some man who believes he'll one day jog across the entire United States - perhaps 14th century "United States": a never-ending treadmill of prairie where rolling your ankle over is as common as stepping on used gum at a carnival. With this much prairie, it's bound to happen. I'm going to fumble and fall. It could be that I'll have to resort to a crawl for a while. It could be that I curl up and accept my title. Maybe I'll even write a book about my failure: "Rolling Ankles On The Rolling Plains". The only people who would buy it would be the marathoners icing their ankles on the couch at home.

I was pushed into a cold pool
with all of my warmest clothes on.
I chose cold and heavy over nakedness.
How long will I shiver and stumble?