with just a few words
the uphill climb
in which I
honed my countenance
was tossed like
a paper cup
to rocks
and crashing surf

the looking glass
splayed
into countless shards
seven years of
ill fate added to
a litany
of twelve-step strutting

mere words,
single-cell words
not a drop of blood spent.
the possibilities, once endless
now
were head-first
and hell-bent on
a joyride
down the spiraling chute

oh process,
oh practice,
I cocoon myself to chrysalis
dreamtime
brings the revival
of my inner light
the hindsight
that does not require
the color rose

the shards at my feet
are a mirror-ball
dancing color
across the perfect
and the future tense

© Tom Watters  5/8/06