Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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Aren’t you done begging yet? Isn’t the lack of resolution during this desert trek of arid searching enough for your eyes to close? Stop looking. Nothing fits other than the glass slipper you shattered when stepping too hard, asking too much, demanding a king’s ransom on a pauper’s pay. The vibrant hues of acceptable days erode into steel gray. Hopes abound in a lush swirl of Spring defiance, and yet a Winter heart thumps like a hollow kettle drum absent the rhythm of reason. How easy it would be just to fall in line to the syncopated need of another pounding away for their own good will. How simple to prop up others to bloom under their sun while yours is lost on the other side of the world, dire wolves baying in the cold midnight of each hour as this heart drifts west, staying in the night, star-chasing as if it there were reason to the tapestry woven by light year sorrow. There isn’t. There’s only the bleak hold of now and these fissures of bliss that seek to crack core stone like January rain, seeping and expanding in the frost of guarded indifference. What a sick joke frost plays on the Summer mind, coating warm dreams until they’re too heavy to float with hope, sinking like truth under an ocean of omitted truths. There isn’t a villain alive that didn’t once fight as a hero; the cold heart still echoing the heat of conviction that this is right. Earnestness is poison ambrosia for the wounded, a hobbled bear helpless until it dines on the flesh of the cuckolded brave and foolish. The clear-minded would strike from a distance, take what can be had and run. Because this melancholy beast is made from ruin, steel eyes searching for a home dismantled by greed, still crying for another chance like fire set loose near new fields of tinder.


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