Isolation

It is as cold

as a steel locket,

isolation

loosely hangs

two chains from a collar,

white as bone, worn

from the hours, of nuance

carefully placed by the bedside,

waiting to be opened

polished and willing

as obligatory as peace

before, the inevitable dawn

which beckons us to

repeat, our autumnal fall

from the burdens we carry.

Olympians in order of merit

I find it both fascinating and concerning

How every belief system has it’s own

Language and moral code on which to live by

Who often speak with identical regard to

A quite ambiguous, rather unknown force

But stand like Olympians in order of merit

As if gold, silver, and bronze

Were anything else but idealized metal.

It’s too early to be tired and I’m tired again.

It’s
too
early
to
be
tired
and
I’m
tired
again.

Not
the
I’ve
been
on
my
feet
all
day
tired.

No.

It’s
that
special
kind
of
tired
we
don’t
dare
speak.

It’s
the
reason
we
stand
all
day
on
our
feet.

Yes.

It’s
that
special
kind
of
truth
we
work
so
hard

to
forget.
Until
we
remember,
no
longer
able
to
sleep.

We do not want, but accept these things.

Unintentionally rude.

Little disheartened sighs.

Incapable of speech.

And worrisome.

Fearful of what, exactly, is unknown.

Trying not to incite confusion.

Attempts not to quarrel only create greater tension.

Anxiety.

Disdain.

We do not want, but accept these things.

In silence,

there is no argument but a stalemate.

Like a fruitless game of chess.

On egg shells,

we walk,

stiff kneed,

toes clenched,

trying not to crumble.

Trying desperately to surrender.

Our sympathy and concern,

marred by our inability to grasp the others discontent.

We slowly close our eyes.

And wake in the morning,

anew.