the harder the fall, the softer it seems (or, heavy hand)

Everything i build
Is a house of cards-
The truth is in the balance,
And a steady hand.

In the white-hot arms of the autumn wind
I watched the sun rise.
Hands white with dust and my damp hair chill against my skin
I wondered about my heart
And its journeys into blindness.

Under the strange, comforting veil of early morning
My knees were level with the pavement and my cheeks cool and flushed;
I numbed my senses and clasped my hands
Praying for a mistake
Too complex to rectify.

Everything i build
Is a house of cards
Paper gables and flimsy walls-
Two red jacks, like dueling hearts.

What is this urge
To lay my hands on-
To covet-
To possess-
I find it eclipses my humanity.
What is love but a necessary distraction?

Everything i build
Is a house of cards
That one timid exhalation
Could render unmade.

It makes me wonder
Why i build at all, but
Am i not the potter,
Not the potter, but the potter's clay? Well,
I prefer to see God as a gardener, nurturing but keeps her distance
And i am nestled in the warm soil,
In furrows shallow and inviting-
And dueling hearts and battles won or lost
Have no place in that fertile darkness.
God digs in the earth with her trowel (the king of spades)
And i am the seeds and i cry out,
"turn me over, and i will find my way!"