Desert rose

Perchance, the moon grips the shadows of the crestfallen ‘neath the winds that feather these scars
Where the silhouette beneath me is tattered—
and shunned by the light that tethers its shroud to my stride  
These morose souvenirs that disfigure my pace
These unorthodox philosophies that fuse my feet to the soil

In vivid youth, I was writ of the menacing swirl of rebellion that wicked fate to my heels
inflicting pain upon others to inhale their fear
Scribing stigma to my brow
 
O’ the guilt has befallen

These wounds that were never open— are salivating
coating my spirit with a sticky shell that collects
I’ve faulted less in hand than in mind
These recollections are far dirtier than I’d planned for

My rationale has painted this succession of madness
brushing black within the impenetrable
upending praise; conquering acclaim

I want to feel frail beauty like the desert rose,
In brittle skin;
delicate
Paper thin veins mixing verve with spirit
Where misrepresentations of self will not capture sorrow in a fleshy husk—
but in ridges raised in harsh reprimand to tint these lines with a less than subtle brush

I want to be free of these lines that chide
To shade whim upon my gestures;
a flair of vim to feed my stature
I want to account for what drives me
to unline my eyes from this blackness
I want to deconstruct this sorrow
and pull repentance from its grave
I want to still the waters
to the crux of the silken vessel that I’ve become
and free this albatross from my sleeve