Bitter Roots

How often does real meaning interject on our lives?

Through the minds of constellations

Looking down on shallow strangers

The overconfident lips find friends,

The hateful, narrow minds release.

But meaning is not chroma

It cannot be painted on

Not by the high-schooler playing his hand

Back on a blanket, squinting hard

Looking for the distant beauty

He's heard is so romantic.

He may as well be blind.

The monk who breaks his vow of silence

After ten years, running in the night

Madly trying to remember the sound of his own voice

Alone, screams, tearing the winter silence and his own words away forever

And is mute, alone, staring.

He may as well be looking through the broken cities of heaven

And the eyes of the God he so fears.