AmateurEccentric

The pen is an enchanting creation. It glides, A canoe over a glass lake, ink rolling easily, Freely, smoothly, willingly. Words slip Like silk scarves, like well-crafted lies, Onto the page. The velvet beauty of a sentence Conceals the creature within, packaging Its contents into photogenic bites. They fool me so easily, posing as simple And manageable tools, as mere conductors Of the electricity of shallow meaning. But a word Is an abyss, and every true line is infinite; Their velvet is steel and their smiling teeth Bar the entrance to the dangers that lurk Within each syllable, each letter, each verse, Sealing off this bubble of illusion in

Her name is Elaine, and she is porcelain. She strolls, chin up, heels clicking, in tailored skirts, Down the sterile halls. She tosses Her hair, a smile, a joke. Her name is Ellie, and she is cotton and yarn. She kicks off cramped shoes, abandons A blazer for a sweatshirt, and settles On the sofa, unconcerned, to watch A friend’s laugh, an actor’s tears. Her name is Laney, and she is aging satin. Stubborn tears are dammed By the starch of her fitted sleeve, by the ice Across the conference table. In the harsh Brightness of her office, she is glass, And in her smooth, polished face I see a distorted reflection Of my own glass sel

These veins are only metal. They offer no warmth; no beat And no blood; only unmoving silver To grace this wooden angel And her empty chest. The heat That should fill this cavern has never Graced it, save when a minstrel Lures it, beckons it, draws her sweet Lifeblood from the air. Like a father, He cradles her to his chin, bow Poised, drawing a voice from the hollow Throat. His hands bring breath, his fingers Bring song, as he pours into her chest an echo Of his heart, a sacrifice of that sacred tempo; His kind are missionaries, bringers Of hope to the silence. Her face is aglow Now, her empty heart will sing, so Long as the friction of his

Sin sits across from me at the kitchen table, Wringing his hands and shaking his head, Looking at the floor, the only certain thing He knows. The forbidden tree has made him able To understand the hands stained with red But not to recognize them. To what do you cling When of evil you are aware, of discernment, incapable? This nameless villain has crept into life and bled Through goodness, a poisoned spring. It creeps in the depths of sorrow, in each smile, Lurks in every creature, every stick and stone He can know evil, but never distinguish It from good. His life has become a trial And his ears are muffled; he is left alone To blindly fumbl