Patterns

to wither off and die,
or to just move on
Some are soldiering through
across uneven lines,
pure pain or slow-formed drips of bliss
Oh how it reminds you of life
As the pieces recover,
those tiny shards or fragments
cut your fingers as you gather
Hardening skin left open
Some lost to sickness, internal or external,
collapsing or transcending
Those were shots too cold to call,
piercing and reviving
It Gives Lift
This time is the tiniest drop
Not swelling or throbbing,
just the crest of the wave
in and out the fields of vision
The only distraction may lie
outside of circle or sphere
A figurative death,
billowing smoke and escalator tread
With pinpoint precision we wait,
plotting out the movement,
or negotiating silence
Deliberately washing our hands
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