Like a crab on the beach
Hunting for food
I am grabbing at you.
The innocent simplicity of my
grasping comes off as violent,
unable to connect with the
dancing flame
of your true nature.
You are not an insect,
nor a stone, nor a piece of seaweed.
The sweetness of your infinite spirit
cannot be fathomed, much less described.
And yet, my grasping continues
like an automated claw in a
toy machine.
I have yet to run out of quarters.
My stupidity knows no bounds.
The itch I am trying to scratch
actually stopped itching many years ago.
And now it is just a movement
lost in time.
Innocently fabricated prison bars,
designed to be a soul’s safe haven
ultimately serve
as a shallow
channel changing
deal chasing
cul de sac of truth.
Until that day
that the ethereal
stomps in with intensity,
burns a hole in my hands
cracks open a decaying brain
and serves a reflected agenda
of spaciousness
and reclaimed vigilance
no longer channeled into the
remote control.