A purpose higher than self…
Like birds, my hands flew from 7th story
Windows welcoming ills of city air.
Watching the pavement blend with the faces of pedestrians.
Again, tomorrow I’ll open windows
To stumble through a different scent,same scenery.
Phone rings. Mother’s voice slides
The conscience from its compartment.
Hands return blistered with blood same color as my skin.
Some shadows are still beautiful
He fights, he lays and waits
awakes to hate the self,
its shame and highs and lows.
Between the blinds the eyes
squinted to see what they
would never forget.
The ability to see beautiful things
blind to physical eyes. Written on a canvas crafted on Heaven.
Strange, resented, overlooked
but in retrospect we’ve all found peace in turmoil.