9/10/11

A yard sale is an odd event, by which a life is known,

A portal into someone's soul, their past upon display.

Yet, all they love and cherish is not gleaned by what they own,

But, rather by discarded things they choose to give away.

9/9/11

Enchanted in a darkened space, all eyes upon a canvas sheet,

That glows emotion, showing drama, sorrow, love and comedy.

And tells us stories of a people who we'll never chance to meet.

While right beside us, those with stories just as fair, sit silently.

9/8/11

An injury shall never heal the way we might expect,

But lingers as a lasting patch of vulnerability.

When wounds subside we must abide their phantom-like effects.

Incorporating all their reoccurring misery.

For as a laceration seals, it leaves a telling scar,

A record of the sad event. A lasting signature.

And every suffered harm that heals will add to who we are,

Each jagged line defining us like maps of where we were.