But who can tell you if he is who he says he is? Who can know the wonders or mysteries behind that façade he puts up day in and day out; the outward treachery of friends, forgotten ones, and knowns? Who’s to say he’s telling the lie correctly?

When do the riddles begin to have a meaning? When can I find out where to begin? when I look around at the mess surrounding me all that I can find is slacks of yarn with no rhyme or reason, no ending or beginning. Why do I have to keep guessing my way around this entangled knot? I want to know the answers but I can’t even find the questions.

when do the trees start to talk and gain their wisdom from silence? what can the flowers and the grass teach me that doesn’t have a sound? why can’t I see what I lie about between the orders of rose and cardania?  When will I know what to ask the trees as they sigh away from the wind that rushes them off to more important things than I? Why can’t I simply ask what I mean to know and hear what I mean to listen?

I need silence before all of this, and my mind is too full of cobwebs to let the echoes still themselves.

Given to Grief

I give, for grief, a small section of my brain, to ward off the bigger comings of repressed memories that would engulf me at once if not let out slowly.

I give, for grief, a small portion of my heart, because I can’t let it go and know that there is no possibility. I’ve tried to chip away that piece, but it’s my heart. It insists on staying whole.

I give, for grief, a small whisp of my soul, loving my beloved mother who will never give me back the years she stole out of spite through a bitterness. The cities are warm in comparison to where the heart my soul lies within.

I have given, for grief, a lot should it add up. My mind, my heart, my soul, it seems to have won. And yet I will never be given to grief, for I am not my own to give.