The Sickness and the Guilt

Fingers to lips and I’m quiet a while,
though some thirsts can wake these dry eyes.

I can paraglide for months with no
surrender, waving to people below the clouds.

Shivering cold scratches my throat;
I’m pendulous in every season, raw.

Be creative and lean, like a black and white
picture, stars glinting merciless on jet black.

The stench moves me to anger, momentary detritus,
and then I’m hunting for a lighter, ravenous.

Life is enticing: the barking dogs, a car alarm, a
shouted love song. I am at one with these rising tendrils.

Yellowing as a sunset, I shush you. We will be
the kings and queens of our destiny, untainted.