sixty-three keys.

​i am so tired
(not exhausted, but
weary) with
sixty-three lists that
keep me from doing what
i need to do
i want to do
i was made to do.

i am frustrated with these
sixty-three emotions that
overcome me, haunt me, hang me, but
are not peace
are not joy
are not productivity
are not satisfaction with
what I was made to
do (to be).

i am buried beneath
regret and doubt
yesterday and tomorrow
push and pull
coffee and alcohol
(all the same damn enemies, of
each other, of my soul).

some days (most days)
death can not
come soon enough
my son’s fingers trace my lines like
the yellow daffodils that
line the dirty interstates
sunlit silhouettes cast
across morning walls
across forest trails
across his face and
i touch his delicate skin wondering if
these dancing specks of light are
our candlelit glimpse across a
a smoky room searching for
the very face of God.

i need him even
when i am
angry
(with him)

every breath is
pollution in my lungs and
every hope is
framed in broken glass
every smile is a reminder of
love that will one day let go and
every tear is
fire on this
aging human skin.

i am bored with
sixty-three simple minds and
i am scornful of
sixty-three churches that
waste their words and
waste my time
i am lost among
sixty-three wrong turns and
i am sad and sober after
sixty-three glasses of
the king’s wine that
never numb the pain
never fill the emptiness
never unravel the disconnect between
this reality and
home.
​
i just want to
go home
but instead there are
sixty-three doors
without keys.