glass

We chase our dreams of inherent disaster, professing ability to handle or blindly ingoring the human touch, seeking that ephemeral stroke, that cosmic kiss, that fucking eternal high that does not exist. We find a face, a name, a form, and bless it with our bitterest yearnings. It is the page the fallen book always opens to. The worry stone worn smooth by inattentive and constant caresses. Shackled in chains of our own manufacture, we spin our silky threads of passion, tasting the rancid aftermath of a mark just missed. "Glory be to God in the Highest" I sang with indoctrination, with repetitive folly, not knowing the pit I was digging underneath my own prone form. That tender boy with the bald testicles never found his adult voice, never startled the world with basso-profundo glee. He merely fell behind, tripping over a loose shoelace, worn, and dirty from springtime mud, shunned by his peers, absorbing the living world around him. The glass, thick, remains unbroken.