Fingers pointing to the Flame

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the Angry man
I guess it holds some truth. You do get angrier as you grow older.
I don't know how comfortable I'll be knowing I'll be an angry man in the future.
It has come to my attention, I am not the same person I was just so few years ago. I realized it, but I did not realize just how much of a public face anger could wear.
I always thought otherwise, but I guess I was wrong.
I am wrong.

Change
Necessary, natural, neutral and unconcerned about the affairs of men.
I will flow with it.
I must embrace it, or die stuck in my own time and character.
So I'll begin.
Quiet.

Diversion
Personal devotion to something to calm me. Missing. I think.
I have to try and remember the lessons of my youth.
I miss that person. He was aware but soft.
I miss soft.
I've baked into a crust, a brusque shell of unconcern and opinion. I use the excuse that I am only so angry because I care, but sometimes I'm not so sure.
I miss myself.

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Birth

I wonder if a snail can tell time moving as it does at that pace.
Does the world spin dizzily too fast, or hauntingly slow as it considers the path before it.

Do the birds in flight look below the world from high above.
Can it see into the lattice of humankind life and wink at the sun and sea in lofty caws.

Will the seas spill their secrets to the shores.
Or have already but our blindness allow the sands to words to slip back to their sad waters.

I will pick a side although I wonder which.
I don't know if it'll have me, sore from the waiting, ill from the need, strange from wanting.

In the heart of mine, burns the flame caught still.
The skin is covered frigid cold with numbness than spider crawls across the pores and cracks.

I was born wrong.
I was born for change.
I was born for no reason.
I was borne.

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