Put a stone in my shoe,

walk a mile or two

and let the cold air brace me,

take me far from nothing

to something else entirely.

And the sun shines in uncovered eyes

my breath takes on it's own life

burning muscles tear against the ground

somehow I'm running and chasing the clouds.

Wind up bleeding, breathing hard

and the feet are in pain, there's a dagger in my heart

and somehow I'm suffering all over again

found through the pain, and grounded again.

Clinging on to life, precious blood and movement

even in routine there can be sanctification

somehow all roads lead to home

and the fire in the sky guides my walk by night

as I hold on to that which rends me and

lends me a perspective that I hope to understand.

When you're living still there is no loss that can take you

until the time comes to go over that final hill

and be acquainted with the maker.

Oh, the faith it takes to live that way,

and the trust that comes with answers

undeniable guideposts and bring purpose to pain

so we only suffer shortly.

We will only suffer shortly.

I mean, what's the difference really

between talent and skill?

How can anyone really tell how much work

gets put into the things that impress?

Could it be an eye, an ear,

a discerning mind that can locate truth?

Or a Masterful hand, and fingers, and words

that have walked the same roads, a thousand times before?

Can the voice at birth be heard as beauty?

Will a child know a head of time,

what they are destined for?

Those standing on a stage with thousands looking on

to marvel at the thing that one does best

and an envious worship comes over them,

and they pay good money for that feeling.

So what's the difference then?

Do we have a right to ask that question,

as we bask in awe and expect a perfectly manifested

outward expression of the inner workings of a

talented person?

SAVOR this, your youth my child,

the BULB will bloom and become a flower

and AGAINST your better judgement

this experience will soon be OVER.

LAUGH freely, readily, openly,

your joy is the APPLE of my eye.

in LOVE, and in peace I beg you persist

lest the nature of this world HORRIFY

and set upon you disastrous expectations.

But still do not allow

INJURY AGAINST yourself,

or those you know you should protect,

remember the EAGLE in all her beauty,

still kills when it is necessary,

do not IGNORE the wicked things that people do

lest the SWORD of JUSTICE fall upon you, too.

Live cautiously, but do not be AFRAID,

and remember the deadliest POISON

often has a pleasant FLAVOR.

Be wary and keep yourself guarded.

A PUPPY will grow quickly and become an old hound

grapes not used for wine, dry up and become RASINs

and so in my state there is no wisdom I can give,

that will tip the SCALE in your favor,

or even mean anything to you.

Despite that I have faith you will be fine.

I'm in the parking lot of the hospital, staring up at the room where my Dad left his body behind. It's become a sort of ritual ever since that week spent sleeping in my car for that week two Aprils ago. From that time onward, I've been drawn to it, somewhat out of guilt I suppose, he was in the hospital for nearly a month, I couldn't visit, and I barely called him. During that time, while I was avoiding the reality of losing him, my uncle stayed out there every night for nearly a month, other members of my family joined, I was the last one to join. I know that my being there wouldn't have changed anything, but I feel this need now to be placed in remembrance, as though I haven't grieved enough. So I'm here, silently staring, standing in the snow and shivering, waiting for the moment when my guilt will let me get back in the car and warm up. The last conversation I had with him was a day or two before he was placed in an induced coma, he asked me why I hadn't been calling, I didn't have an answer. I deserve to be haunted by this, just the thought that he might have felt abandoned by his own son right up until the time of his death, his son who he gave everything for, who he loved unconditionally and with fierce intensity, his son who he taught about music and how to love people. His son never called.

That guilt will sit inside of me and rot until the day I die.

So now, being in the presence of this building, trying to serve a penance for my neglect and selfishness, my thoughts turn to God. I think of my creator, and the sacrifice that Jesus made for the salvation of mankind. How he bore my sin as well as the sins of everyone else who was, is, and will be. How do I deserve that? No amount of standing in the cold or beating myself up will ever bring me to salvation from the guilt of my sin. God did it for me. I think this, and I know it, I believe it and try my best to act accordingly, but in moments like this, when the snow is piling up around my feet, and my hands begin to numb against the cold, I can only see the overbearing darkness of my foolishness and I stand smack in the middle of the moment, feeling entirely deserving of whatever suffering I might endure for the next few minutes. Somehow I am not dead, the evidence is in my face, and the blood rushing to my hands to warm them.

Why do I do this? How can I accept forgiveness if I feel I don't deserve it? What kind of God could possibly feel love for me? And I start walking, down by the waterfront just across from the hospital, a park I used to play at as a child which at this particular moment seems almost purposefully void of familiar warmth. I know that I'm torturing myself, I know I have no right to judge my actions. What good does it do to walk down into these pits of darkness when I know that they go on forever? What good comes from exploring the intricacies of shame and guilt when they warp and wrap around like endless mazes? Who am I to suffer so greatly at the hands of my past, who am I to bear this minor burden with such misery and dismay, knowing full well that it is just a reality, and a part of who I am. It is just one of many examples of my inability to save myself from the nature of humanity, which is to fail at almost every opportunity for success, especially when alone.

I do not need to be poisoned by this any more, I have the ability and freedom to accept it and move on. I don't need to keep coming back here to worship my mistakes and live them out over and over again. I am not perfect, nor was I ever meant to be. But I am also not here to die to sin, to test the limits of what a person can bear on their own; that is not my responsibility.

I'll carry on, I'll be sad, I'll remember with a realistic understanding of the truth, but I won't be back here.

The youth is slowly slipping by

in a cascade of responsibility

that rises as a tide does upon the horizon

with an impending intention to destroy futility

and they never talk of the joy of discipline

until they've found success in doing so

so the vanity of being young is kept alive

for far too long, and we stay boys and maidens

past our date of expiration

and do not allow for the evolution

so through resistance we found some solution

to keep on being high and finding newer novelties

to distract and entertain from a rapidly approaching reality

that in itself is actually not at all terrifying

but does require change and an understanding of discomfort

and for some reason, though it is natural, we suppress that transition

and stay static in our minds while our bodies age around them

and eventually fall prey to diseases and decay

while we feel entitled still to enjoy each moment and passing day

without patience for delays in satisfaction or fulfillment

and are turned over then to the primordial depravity

of a lifelong childhood

In an attempt to entertain perhaps, or make the world be magical

we lie to children all the time, so they believe the strangest things

like santa claus, the tooth fairy, and the Easter bunny,

a pantheon of childhood gods that walk through the young one's dreams

and they believe on them, they have faith that things are so

proving to the world how malleable people are.

But more significant are those lies that parents tell

not to make the world seem magic, but to shelter their kids from hell

and in so doing make themselves out to be more than they are.

a parent is not the same thing as what the world sees as an "adult"

We teach our children to see us as a different set of beings,

who rule the earth with wisdom and wrath, and who have no arbitrary reasons

the children see adults create and destroy things at their will

again like gods to be worshiped and obeyed lest wrath be fulfilled.

and in a way this too is a lie, we as adults all walk in sorrow

mourning the lost innocence of the childhoods we borrowed

wishing for and recapturing the bliss of youthful joy

by ignoring the reality that through our actions we employ

an abundance of control within and above each generation

with the responsibility to see the children raised and make them

into what we are now, the stewards of the earth

boundless in intention and creators of value, not worth

Gods on earth to children being that which was created

to foster innocence and joy so they may do so also

and not be thrown about by whim or stray intense emotion

but be secure in teachings that will make it so.

There is a duty among men

to hold each other up

and edify the workings of their friends

it is sacred, and it makes us whole

and defines and manifests the eternal love

earthly practice, community building endeavor

designed to defy the ways of the world

through works of kindness, an act of rebellion

Total harmony from now until forever.

and amazing thing that time can do

heal all wounds and decay the flesh as well

what is responsible for endless marches

and chronic motion that seems to ail us

as we work to waste it distract from its passing

entertaining illusions to make it go down easy

and hair grows longer, gets cut, turns gray

but recordings of history miraculously stay

in tact though their message is polluted by change

and it moves and it moves and it moves us away

and toward some destiny that no one can see

some have grand ideas, yet no one can be

there except the creator, you see it's not linear

just a million wide spots in the road

chained together on a highway but really

we only see that because of memory

if we couldn't think of such things we'd be scrambling

from moment to moment without so much as a second thought

but we don't so we write keep tradition and tell stories

about the history of all that we've noticed

occurs in the world and the function of changes

the documentations of several differing patterns of decay

physical first, spiritual second, then moral societal

all depending on the perspective of the individual

but somehow nothing important gets lost,

or at least that which we lose turns out not to be

and we live on.

Life becomes untethered

at the point in meditation

when the observance of the observer

dissolves into closed-eyed blackness

and the feeling of breath marks time

swelling the void with life.

The sensation of wholeness

and marked improvement of mood

defeats anxiety

by noticing nothing is happening

and it becomes numb comfort

to not have to be anything at all.

Then the eyes reopen, light floods them again

and the blackness of reality is quickly shocked away

bringing to mind the question, "what does it all mean"?

The difference between shape and sound and thought

are not to be examined so closely

and all meaning dies.

And so untethered, slipping into the void

past all comprehension

and the only thing to notice is the tingle

of some mental satisfaction

rest of some description

brought abruptly to an end

this temporary peace

practicing being dead

with nothing else beyond that

a being made of dirt

pretending to be dirt again.