33

at 33 my heart was broken by an soft white light 

I'd never spoken of before. at 33 i was surrounded by the panic 

of a God 

i didn't fear or a love 

i didn't worship. at 33 

i split myself for you and 

gave 

the splinters to the wind 

and the rest to the rabbit hole 

i chased my whole damn life.  at 33 

i moved like a gypsy on the trail 

of a road less traveled. at 33 

i found no 

peace 

only war 

in my heart even though the 

days stretched like ribbons to 

heaven and back. at 33

 i sat gloomy like

 those sundays 

i couldn't escape when

 the grey skies would open wide 

and swallow my tiny courage 

through a straw that didn't work both ways. at 33 

you promised me nothing 

and i got what you promised 

and i waited for another 

thousand years 

to catch up to your eyes 

even though they were far 

gone and i was too. at 33 

i led a small army into battle 

and won a minor victory against my former slaves 

and promised to make a new plan 

that would provide me with the necessary 

good to make a necessary right 

and pull those long sharp knives 

from the thick end of my spine 

so i could walk upon the ground 

you laid full of traps and smiles 

always swaying back and forth 

in heat waiting for the next 

retreat but it came and 

went before you even recognized 

the poems 

were dusty and overdue. at 33 

i drank from a glass of wine that 

set my balance spinning into every other orbit but my own. at 33 

my home was deserted 

and my plans were cremated 

and my ability to wash myself

 clean of the sad old mess went through 

the window with the breeze 

and the rain and the mountain of lost

 memories that once defined my very nature as 

a curious boy with a fever for 

danger unless i'm remembering it all wrong 

again and again and again and again and again...