Left the upper hand.

Sometimes I wish I were
left handed
or maybe it is upper handed....
A few days outside of your
graces and I see
the world keep moving
even though I am certain
it is on fire.

That slow burn eases,
at least I hope it will.
Or else I'll have to dig my
teeth out of the ashes
and remember which way
they go in.

To the edge and back, though
I know I didn't even touch it.
A glimpse into the reflections
of that cold unfrozen lake and
I turn to sludge and stone
in one shallow gulp.
I can't even talk about it.
Though not all of me is secret.

Melan de Colia

An unmovable sadness
wrapped in tight green vines
feelings of loss yet to be
experienced.
A looming knowing,
undeniable, yet
daily denied.
Uncompromising weight settling
in, in an already narrow
space.
Sometimes like heavy
blue water rising rising
towards thine neck
and sometimes stones neatly piled
upon mine fragile chest.
The brittlest bones
are the hardest to see.
The brittlest feeling is the
hardest to catch.
Eluding to unknown crashing down and
clenching fists before slumbers rest
only to awaken,
uncertain to be awake,
and forget the
impeding wave
of
dissolution,
only momentarily.
Converging upon two lines
of absolute asymmetry,
the anxious wolf tames a quiet lion.