Will I?

Sometimes my trumpet scrapes
upon the sharp gravel and the
golden paint chips into little flecks
that stick to my ankles and toes.

I want to lift my head, but I
can’t seem to find the strength.

My desires and passions are
violet specters that pull at my chest.

From my sacral regions I feel fire
that brings waves of grief, because
all I want is to love and be loved.
What a shame reality can be.

Spiral staircases extending from me
and I cannot walk them all, and
I can see that some are worse than
death, but even still I want to climb.

There are choices; there are dividers.

The journey is the tale and the tale
is the reflection of feelings.
I am the greenest sequoia; the
whitest birch.

Somewhere in the unraveling threads
of the Lord’s mighty might I will
find the answers and possibly
the acceptance.