Am I the drips of blood in my own nightmares?
Am I the one breath underwater?
Am I the key to the unhinged latch?
Am I the tingling sensation that ceases to last?
Like a mime, I climb the translucent barrier.
Like a mime, my broken faucet of a throat squeaks.
Intertwined in the loose ends frayed with age.
Intertwined with reality sinking and pressure rising.
Trying to find meanings for meaningless reactions,
Trying to treasure what is now imagination,
Trying to give life to a tethered bulldog,
Trying to seek pleasure out of sediment.
Feeling the pluck of your red, beating pedals is mother nature’s kiss.
Feeling the timpani trump in your chest is The Father’s rhythm of triumph.
Feeling the wet glands on your fingers is evidence of proper self turmoil.
Your decision with these elements is the true crime.
How many experiments are presented unmeasurable?
How many rainbows are predicted the night before?
How many boulders are proven impenetrable?
How many mourning doves must pass your window until hope is recognizable?
It is you who controls the mourning doves.
It is you who sits underneath the rainbow.
It is you that remains a tethered bulldog.
It is you that listens to the timpani rather than God’s rhythm.
