Dried dirt

      Silly as a wave of irony strikes. I dare to be open
as the tears echo down my face. I hated breaking the
roll of silence. I still don't like the emotion of hurt. Yet
repeatedly it rages against me.

     Standing outside is the only calm I have. The coldness
dries up the things I cannot change. The brisk layers
draw me into a soft shell. I sit praying that the waves
of stupidity just ceases.

    Dare I ask? No. Dare I speak? No. Just wonder. Just
let go because heat eats up the insides. The tears that
fall on the outside only induce the cynic inside.

     Careful how the words tread. Careful how the
emotions spread. Careful, careful careful you may
just harm more than heal.

      How you beg to know? How dare you say understanding
is there. No. Trust is thin yet strong. Just don't push
to crack it.

      Oh now just in a loss of words at how simple I appear.
Lost inside a memory. Lost inside. Still I shine through.
Enduring and standing tall when all is falling to pieces
around me. Dare I acknowledge the crumbles? Oh no
for then I would be easy prey for those devious hunters.

     A sigh of exhaustion shakes me to my core. Hoping
I don't assume nor overthink yet I have no right even
to correct. I can only pray, only hope that the fast
beating heart is so very wrong. That the knot in my
throat and the stinging in my mind is clearly incorrect.

    Still there is not much I can pursue when all is
gathered in glass favors. I need answers to questions
already spoken. Stil time has to find the way.

     Dare I listen? Dare I ask? Dare the words fall from
rosy lips? Dare they speak any meaning?

      Oh you who knows me, proclaims to understand,
why the hurt echoes?

      Tell me. Explain to me the levels of acceptance?

      Softly gather your gestures. Kindly warm the mind
because yet again the wall is built of ice. Intriguing how
a play can be described a million ways, but what of the
truth?

     Shh. Hush now, Mary. The words cease. The tears
dry. The quivering halts. The hatred of lies and pain
control as the mind rewinds a bit of hazy kindness.
Was there a game?

    I cannot see it as that. Just the worry of silliness is
my place of it. So here, in this beating heart a pulse
thunders. Hear the rampage forming and storming
the very soul. Watch as my spirit springs back once more.

     So what is the game played? What is the agenda in
the motives?

     No I care not because I must see the positive.

     So if there is love, display it wildly for at the moment
dirt seems more vibrant than that which has been given
from these past few days. Am I that or better?