Unsung Heroes

At rest, on a dusty, somewhat wobbly,

And unassuming cheap, white, plastic shelf,

A fortnight’s worth of languishing

In the blurred and quiet hours

Must be endured. Like barely

Perceptible shadows on the periphery,

They require even the faintest inspection;

Seeking a sort of acknowledgement.  

As they drift in and out of focus,

The unsung heroes await

Coming opportunities to record

Their deeds on the surface

Of our skin. So frequently

They catch wandering and inquisitional stares

From eyes that can’t help but be drawn

To their gleaming, razor-thin, bent blades.

Full of sharply spoken, hastily-made,

And quickly fading promises.

But, to be held, the instrument

Of choice, in capable hands –

Is a spinning and whirring affair.

Each revolution an act of transformation,

Slowly lowered, brought to the surface.

The angle chosen for maximum ability to tear,

All sides are used for swiftly scraping.

In the removal of excess, while

The curling shards and translucent flakes

Are flung in increasing, careless heaps

A sleek and altered form appears.

It is the essence, emerged from  

Fingers, sponge-tongue, metal grating

Contracting and exploring layers

Clearing space. Intently focused,
Firm, but supportive touch.

A moment of clarity

Courtesy of the glistening, satin

Rays of the late afternoon sun.

Comfort here, before the

Rolling, thick, heavy hanging clouds

Turn this inhaled, upward glance

Towards an opaque, metallic sea.

Then, the world visibly becomes

A vacuous space

We tentatively inhabit. 

Shedding our Skin

When darkness reigns –

An amalgamating, thick

And close shroud –

Seeming to swallow

Our entire world

Without mercy

Without distinction;

We huddle and hover –

Moths – unable to resist the

Nagging desire to

Give our selves up.

Some of us are willing to

Lay down our lives. To

Scorch and burn and

Visibly writhe in pain;

If only we are allowed and

Able to bask in the

Eerie luminescence of the neon flame.

It is then, that we would be wise to 

Remember that we are

Breathing, human bodies utterly,

Indecently covered in dead fibers.

The juice long dried up.

We must look like moldy, shriveled fruit

Rotting on the vine.

So much potential that we

Must not see as squandered.

Instead we learn from

Our fumbling and groping towards

An accumulation that initiates 
The ability to

Shed our skin.

Stretching our sense of self

We may merge with

All that we fear when

The lights go out.

Then we become blanketed by

The twinkling menagerie,

Drunk and lulled to sleep,

Embraced and bathed by

The celestial glow
 Of Aphrodite’s elixir.