Dust

For me,
It happened after the soft bud dried and cracked.
There was disorientation first
And an aching for real hunger.
All I knew was spring
With its promise, fame and renown.
All I knew was a taste.


Disoriented, I saw a face.
Its eyes were rapt and a mirror,
Its lips wet and thin.
There were thoughts of bread so I ate them.
There were pictures of wholeness, too.
I copied them, wrote on them and painted them over with hopes.


It was my father's voice in the thoughts,
My mother's image in the pictures.
I had never seen nor ever heard
Before the roaming face came.


For me,
It was like a dry flower that breaks.
The face was a lie for the sake of truth,
The lie you have to thank
When you learn it saves you,
When you learn it makes you.
It is the lie that you are beautiful when you are not,
Which is forgiveness.

It makes the liar into a god
And it starts to show:
The flower is dead.
It was always dead. (This is important to remember)


You forget and it takes everything from you.
We desire to celebrate what we know,
But what we know is slavery.


For me,
It had to be told again and again.
I might say I am not,
But I am beautiful.
The bud is crushed
And cannot be restored by slavery.

In freedom you begin to hear the lies,
Which are everywhere,
And you start to pull your brain out your ears.
There is usually bleeding.
There is usually agony.

If this dry, perfect dust can be valued,
Then existence has done it
With flowers,
With skin.

For me,
There is one day that matters,
One face and one voice.
I am the mirror here to tell you the lie
That can save you.