the story is being written

madness majick and infamy

spilling off the page too heavy

to carry we tip over under the weight

that rides dead center inside keeping

us off balance stumbling up hill

sometimes you got to grow wings

feed it to the wind go where the water

flows without sound we walk wounded

through lean slivers of real life distracted

forgetting to count the blessings

essential to the thought of continuing

we smell of struggle overcoming or the

effort of trying to distance ourselves from

that narrative hard to find even ground

movement is life so walking forward

is written on the inside of eyelids sewn

shut to reality like a nailed window shades

the light still spills through shadows every

where especially in bright light and in the

contemplation of the quantitative quality of

our lives we grow schisms like mushrooms

tended in the dark defying statistics

we are the confusing side of complexity

hanging like the moon off center

sometimes invisible

but still omnipresence

even when you can’t decipher its shape

we step over the bones

sometimes falling where other have fallen

sometimes using their falls to propel us

we keep walking going forward because

movement is life and we are alive walking

wounded on the bones of the fallen

and those who stood on them

before us holding up the sky

singing in the dark