With hurricane eyes and a nosebleed smile
I battle through the belly of circumstance.
The ancient ruins in which I find myself
at the center of
day after day,
with their cracks
and jagged edges
and open pores
begging for the slightest caress
from trembling, familiar fingertips,
have all somehow and some way
seemed to retain their functionality.
That is to say, that which once was,
still is,
but with the guise that it is no longer.

I am not dead because nothing and no one ever dies,
and because the tiniest vestige of “life,”
that flicker of forward motion,
is the very thing that fools the rest of the world into believing
that which their eyes do not see,
that which their ears do not hear,
that which their trembling, familiar fingertips do not feel.
I am the eternal lie and I have many names:
god, love, hope, success.
I am your faith in tomorrow,
my own faith in next year,
the unfulfilled promise of a future that is different from the past,
yet familiar enough to the present
to keep me alive
in that which you do not see or hear or feel.

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