I’ve been trying.
Trying to ring some rubies from this old, tattered rag.
Tracing these old iron bars with white gloves and pinched fingers.
Trying to find just one feather to dip into that old well.
Some days I’m not sure I have much left to say.
Like an archer with no arrows, an arsonist fresh out of fuel.
Maybe it’s just what happens when one learns to live.
You know, like when you’re young and gutted, when everything is new and exciting and terribly fucking cruel, you just overflow with it.
Life spends no wasted hours.
No meaningless minutes providing a young heart with oceans of ink.
But here I am, staring, fingers cocked but chamber empty, struggling to just squeeze off a few rounds.
An old man, washed out and stabilized. Wise and emptied of all that stirs.
All the drama lies cut up on the editing room floor.
And I’m just one more animal stumbling through survival.
Half here and all in.
Listening to the echoes..
