the sever

the tentacle of desire has not reached the root.
it has been severed.
there is no mystery, how it moves,
it aims, and goes
for the shoots.
ready to starve what might hint at growth, say,
something green. and I do mean the green
of joy.
i have taken sides and chosen wisely,
that is to say I have
seen.
and the sever of what would have choked me
did not hurt nearly as much
as misplaced hope,
springing, unwieldy.
i have never won a battle. ever. i have never lifted a
blade in my own strength,
yet the death-grip is severed.

Thistledown

i feel cracked. the spread of my life is so thin
i can barely taste it, disappearing in each crunch
of crust. am I crusty?

my hand shook as I ate my lunch of ramen
the girl in the cafeteria let me have hot water from the carafe so i waited 3 minutes for it to cook and the noodles slid down.
i still feel habanero like a scorching braze.
after waiting my life long for the free movement of
fingers
and toes
I realize i forget the expectation as I sleep
in indecision.
there will be mistakes.
there will be breakdowns/ups. redirections, diversions.
I will return. I will always be restored
to float
like thistledown.