they buoy me,
with good intentions;
other times,
they lay me low,
with lamentations;
like rhyming conventions:
they stand stark,
wanting to be viewed,
and truth told,
it is not the picture,
but rather the viewer,
who is skewed;
the master of disaster
is the one who is found
nude --
relieved of his incongruity,
he is cast in stone,
for his elasticity,
for eternity,
as he struggles to move,
to find his groove,
but he gets the best of me,
maybe it's destiny --
and I struggle to prove
that what's left of me
will forever be
that moves
one person to be
a testimony
to all that can be done,
if just one of us
can raise up,
can rise up,
and demand a drink
from that sacred cup,
that's what
I wanna be.

March 21, 2010.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

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