Snapshot.

The sun sets and lights the skyline like a torch,
a moment seen over a thousand times before,
and yet it stops me dead, as if it were the first time.

The artist me is struggling to come out,
but all it ever sees is beauty where there is doubt.
Where shadow trumps light, it feeds from the image;
an apt oversight, where ignorance becomes priviledge.

The scientist in me is in the same boat,
but instead of seeing beauty, it tries to rationalize love.
Where the water reaches the shore, where sand touches
the grass, the pebbles and rocks: it screams
'These things have come from the past!'
And beyond all it sees, lies emptiness,
so much for depth;
a stillness behind the playhouse curtain,
atuned to the rational, useless- not adept.

The child in me cries for comfort from cold,
and when the world starts to breathe:
it takes shelter in its hole.

The self cannot judge itself without harshness,
a blind discomfort to all that is contained within the conscious.
"Let's talk you!" "No! Let's talk me!"
A supple young shyness
overcast by the slyness
that all may yet hold,
we're all bows without arrows
until someone comes near,
and threatens our dear hold on ourselves:
what if we lose ourself in another?
Does that make us a weapon
for one brother to kill another?

Bows turned to arrows;
sticks turned to knives;
coals turned to fire;
curiosity turned to lies:
we're all capable of evolving-
evidence has been found-
but this does not me we have to
continue to break the very ground
with our hammers and chisels;
drills and shovel heads.
Some of us are victims, others are culprits;
some of us are living, while others are dead.