What is this thing

we call a home

if it doesn't feed us,

if it doesn't please us?

A flash of light,

pure and white,

recedes into gray;

what's perfect is good,

what's good is complicated,

and nothing is clear either way.

A blanketing cloak

so tight that it chokes

suddenly removed in the cold;

divested when I need warmth,

exposed when I need cover,

reality when I become so old.

But why does change

have to be strange?

I create my future;

what I do

is what I make,

how can I innovate

myself

when what I was

is a lie?

I am always new;

the person above is old;

every choice,

every breath,

reincarnates.

The world has problems

that cannot be fixed

without any changes

in how society ticks;

the earth only has so much dirt

with which to bury our hurt.

I write for pleasure;

I write for peace;

I reveal my mind's treasure

so that confusion may cease.

A tire without friction

never determines its destination

but a car without drive

never moves from origination;

I do not start

without a goal,

without a chart,

but I do not stop

until I see it to consumation.

Change is brief; 

the line is jagged;

the meter is clunky,

but the soul is not static.

Creation complements

destruction

but neither is dependent

on the other's introduction;

and thus when I create,

when I innovate -

when I reach into the void

and something new is deployed -

I might finally be pleased.