i am now, that i wasn't before,
in some minds,
unbinded to them,
peculiar in our new distances.
there was the chain,
fastened in black ways,
durable in the mystic,
proud as Man.
i learned my lesson,
don't think i didn't,
and now reap the
harvest of hubris.
i was perhaps unelegant,
perhaps working too
hard, perhaps full of one way
when their way went opposite.
it was a chain, regardless,
meant to forge some kind
of strange blessing among
us against outside demons.
but all it did was make me
lie to myself about truth,
blind me to the impostor
that is love.
they have wriggled free,
and are better for it,
and delight in the escape
while i stand cleaved.
nothing is thicker than water,
nothing stands the test of
time, except maybe the
composition that time writes.
i cannot wash my hands
of the stain from the grip
on those weathered,
plaited hopes.
but the blood is
gone, and the bandages are tossed,
so there is the finery of meekness
that comes from that.
