I.
The arts, they start to unravel the past
like the weather undone by God
whom I haven't given enough time to
erase the dirt from my feet
A census on our hearts tells us we've
stopped beating, our architecture
crumbling and our frailty compounded
by the lens we use to examine each other.
But to snap the trance we live in,
would be to break the fibers of our flesh
and let the scales of our eyes fall upon our feet.

II.

Our lives are wrecked by death, utterly elevated
to settle just below where we
want to be.
The youth of an old man more imminent
than the wrinkles that hide his face
from the world, sick
with a human condition called hope,
buried six feet underground.

III.

Read some Emily Dickinson,
and learn to love someone,
other than yourself and
find beauty in more than words.
The inevitability of the indelible mark
some may leave with a kiss on the head
may warm the ice from our hearts,
the wrinkles of your eyelids clinging
to the long black eyelashes
sheltering you from the rain.

IV.

God come down
in a form other than the rain
because the clouds have
hung too low today.