I have tossed my rose-colored glasses into the garden;
now blinded by the bright white sun,

how it seeps into the black of my pupils,
two churning vacuous holes

where I’ve stored my pain, peering away into the external,
distracted from repressed and blinding truths

and there are many; it was a dubious task,
but how creativity aids the will of the broken—

and I am, I admit. But I can heal. I am sure
we all can, our will defies the axiom of logic.

I find hope there, in the possibility,
in the healing hands of perseverance,

balancing the yin-yang world
between what is and what could be.

05/03/2010

Posted on 05/03/2010
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