Look at how you walk.
you're a fox,
taking your strides with such
contempt.
Look at you
You, the master of
the disappearing act,
the dealer of the cards,
the wearer of many faces,
the speaker of different tones,
the kaleidescope of different beliefs.
One wink and they're yours.
They take off spinning.
Spinning, in smooth small circles,
and ice cream smooth
words.
While you hold them-
hold them out from you
at the edge,
mixing them into your game.
Smooth them like butter,
hold them between your teeth like candy,
roll them around with your tongue,
just keep them near the horizon,
and you're king of the sandcastle-
because...
you've got it all
figured
out.
don't you?
Oh, so cunning.
Sharp tongue, and
soft hands.
Smooth.
But remember -
they're people too,
and a card's only paper,
easily torn in two.
A painted face smears from running tear drops,
tones fall flat,
and
faithless beliefs crumble and burn.
Sandcastles meet defeat by the rushing of waves,
and the sun
always disappears
behind a perfect horizon.
Is that what your game is made of?
Gold plaited iron is still cold and bare underneath.
The sweetest rose will wither and die, disintegrate to dust.
They will fly, for no princess will accept a crown of roses in place of diamonds
