Bibliography

The years stretch before me like a desert,

Where every grain of san is a shard of glass

And I have to cross barefoot

Without a sup of water for the trip.

The sun, once guiding light of the world,

Is so bright it's blinding, yet cold to me, crawling

Beneath my skin, itching and burning and vital for life

Yet detrimental to it as well- the odd light

Stripping away everything that makes me me,

And replacing it with something else,

Naturally artificial. But always surprising me.

The air here robs you of breath,

Destroying more than it preserves-

So dry and bitter for all its crystal sharp clarity;

The very wind apt to peel flesh from bone,

Breaking them to lay bare the weak/vulnerable,

Pulsing organs within,

Yet slipping through your fingers,

Like the slightest of things, intangible.

Gone almost as quick as you could feel it,

Its twisted desire for blood rejects the good,

And leaves only a ghastly memory.

The years rise up like a mountain,

Insurmountable, indomitable, each foot of ground

Brimstone, as each jagged edge or upturned rock

Is a knife blade, ready to burn you, bleed you

For every desperate handful you grab.

The lakes, pools of silvered, rain-fed wonder

Are mirages- all dazzle and dark intent,

On the surface incomparable, for a touch divine,

But step in and you can drown, real or not,

Lose yourself for the simple promise

Of a taste of power or glory.

Past the vaunted surface you'll see too much-

Everything you hate, everything you fear,

Yourself both amplified and diminished.

Past the surface you're only human, fragile,

Raw and imperfect and fated to hurt, to die.

The years swallow me, consuming, like an ocean,

Every wave a moment of despair

Or ecstasy, which can be despairing too-

an obstacle in an otherwise smooth,

Steady transition. Immovable, immeasurable,

Un-harnessed power that can wear you down,

Leave you weak, or invincible, and

Nevertheless works in such a way you go willingly.

And it surpasses any metaphor, analogy or simile,

So I give up.

Time, as I've described it, frightens me still,

Each day an intangible reminder I've thus far failed,

That I'm still so far behind, beaten.

But it's my life, start to finish [or present day I should say]

And I'll make it.

The sun, the face of humanity I've viewed so darkly,

For what it's become and its improbability for change,

I can tolerate [enjoy?], in small amounts, with new eyes,

Protected by my faith.

The air [society] I so detest but need to live, purified,

It's a vacation from the stifling sterility/sobriety of my world

And I couldn't be happier to take a chance, fill my lungs.

Turning my back, no matter how hard, to the wind

Of gossip, I make my journey up the mountain-

And I grow stronger. Though how I can't explain.

In the sea of emotion I both scorn and covet,

I rinse free the blood and pain of my passage

And baptize myself anew as Human,

Mortal redeemed, progressing and blessedly unoriginal.

But even that ill-equipped me for the rest. Love.

Above all else what I cannot understand,

That which I've studied, which I fought,

That constant and eternal force

That washes away all pretense-

Washed away me, and gave me the power

To take that final step up the mountain.

Love, like the ocean, took back the tears it created

With its salty sting, and embraced me-

It carried me away and released me, altered me,

To sink or to swim… and I swam.

My destruction and my salvation.

Love ended the story began in fear and heartbreak

And wrote a story all by itself.