All in the Tangle

By J.S

I want to write beautiful gardens,
have the bloom be booming,
a showering of flowers,
tended to, and tender-seen.

All in the tangle,
the knots,
the teeming,
was the awe-claiming clamor
of a life so bright in ever-after,

a splash brighter
than paint could muster,
the yellow like white
that burns spots in our eyes.

Terrified.

I barter with permanence
to discard the past few years,
as what I’d do different has multiplied.

And I’d like it to look different.
To no avail . . .

It seems I’m the only thing
permanent about me.

Most days it feels like the path sinks lower.
I already know
there was never a bottom.

Like a coin flipped in the air . . .

The result.
Too bright to be read.

So you paint the side
you had hoped it would land.
And there I am at your feet.