cracks in the mirror

This moment that you poets love,
It now rings real with train wheels squealing.
Tooled to stop in time, the gears
grind to an angry release,
pensive beyond despair,
losing itself in the rain
that will not absolve me.

This self that you poets sing
does it find wholeness each day,
fitting life's empty core
at the fault line
between trust and deception?

these words, poet, that you say,
do they cage a promise that can't
be said, or spill wine
from parched, dying lips?

Channeling desire where shadows die,
a testament should machine
the soul to abide truth,
and shed light to repair human intent
when evil makes a surprise visit
at the truck stop diner.

But truth's as shy as a zebra moth
hiding beneath the porch light,
hidden in plain sight. Lost in desire,
barren of hope, there the demon
waits, and angels with bread.

Like you, poet, I sought to speak
the only tongue I came to trust.
The embrace at night.
The touch of lips at dawn.
Love's pristine desire defined
by its ash and gift of purer fire.

There's what you do
And there's what you say.
If you make the world in your image
make certain the mirror is not cracked.

copyright 2011 Charles David Miller All rights reserved