If I was my
father’s son
I’d grow up
strong, pure,
fleet
Silent in
a dark wood
disappearing into
the snow, my
identity
a lack of
tone, contrast
A mirror,
a canvas
A piercing brilliance
from the
sun’s glare
on snow,
the color
someone’s hair
turns when
they experience
a
great loss
This color
was a zero
degree
a negation
a mirror recognizing
itself
in a
mirror, the
color of ghosts
ghosts of conquistadors
ghosts of
masters
We came from
the North
relished the
austerity,
juxtapositions
were clear,
contrasty
we ate dark
bread, we
worked, we
were silent often,
like the blankets
of crystals that
dampened the
green wood
What was
there to say?
that hadn’t already
been posited
by the terrible
turning of
the planet,
of time
But I am
tainted,
impure, tortured
by my
impurity
I have sinned
I have been
not so strong
I have been
weak
Worst of all,
I have relished
it, relished
my pain, lived
in my stink
and my
weakness
Focalin Rose
was a symbol
for us that
year
a stained-glass
picture of a
flower that
we crushed
up focalin
extended-release
beads on to
snort, usually
crossing the
lines like an
ex
Focalin Rose
was a fast,
clean woman
more brilliant
than the sun,
hair lighter than
blonde, orphan
but not
a
mutt
Two years later
I marveled at
what I’d managed
to achieve in
conjunction with
my psychiatrist
The meds I was
on, when taken
together, were
the closest to
zero-degree I
could get
A perfect clearness
like empty
glass, was all i
felt, and a
corresponding
fragility
I truly felt
nothing, smooth
and in HD, just
a reflection of
my surroundings
Beautiful poem.
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