clothed

the cold morning rain soaks my coat,
stiffening my shoulders, the added weight
and scent of poorly aged sadness,
rising unbidden from the fabric
like the mustiness of a long winter's demise.

old clothes are often old friends,
molding over the years to a comfortable shape.
or perhaps, its me and not them,
with slow alteration
subtly conforming to my unyielding costume.

who does the change, and who the changing?
does it matter? do they care?
a lifetime of imperceptible shifting
driven by cold drops of rain.

Illusory

All life
is illusion

glittering specks in a river bed
the shimmer of heat off summer asphalt
a mote out of the corner of your eye

unattainable
unassailable
out of focus
always.

The Other Parent

full tank
empty car
homeward bound.

Shrouded

My Past envelops me,
a gossamer shroud of metaphysical vapor
I can neither descry nor entirely perceive,
save for a chill at its whispering touch.

At rare moments in time
the shroud slips away,
and I draw a single glassy breath,
inhaling a tempest of clarity.

Like a nightmare scream
that drags me from deep slumber,
the tumult rages in my soul
long after the shroud descends,
a heavy curtain, to darken the world again.

My pace through this life does not slacken,
though the compass needle wavers,
each movement comes at higher cost,
and each step is more difficult than the last.

The shroud can not mask
the inevitability of defeat.