A picture

They say a picture holds a thousand words. Which may be so. But what are these words? Are they truths? Can they be hopes? What if they're fantasies? Does that slowly turn them into lies? What if we believe these words? Why is that our thoughts, however pure they may be, however true we perceive them to be, happen to turn into a lie. That we conceive? There is nothing more simplistic than a picture. Nothing more pure. Nothing more honest. Nothing more true. Nothing more holy. A picture is true. A picture is exactly what it is meant to be. It's captured everything it needs, and needs only what it has captured. So in the grand scheme of what our idea of grand and scheme is..where does our thousand words come into play? Better yet, why do we think that they have a shot in the game at all? What if a picture wasn't worth anything but a picture? Can we grasp that? Are we even supposed to? If it were up to me. A picture would be worth no words at all. How beautiful would it be to have no insecure thoughts, no what ifs, no I should have done this'. How beautiful it would be, to just take in what is beautifully pictured. Because in that picture contained a moment. That at the time, contained all moments. Where everything was right, secure, honest, true, and holy. So don't waste your time in adding your thousand pitiful words, rather, take it for what it is. What it's actually worth. A picture. 

Mystery

Sitting on the rocks
with the pain shot down my legs
where standing is not truth
yet sitting holds no grace

Thinking of the mystery
that cannot be unsaid
and knowing of the wire
that binds me and says I'm dead

The blades of grass that cut me
and the pillars of smoke that blind me

The tides of sea that stop me
and the sprite filled flames that feed me

I'm caught up in the wire
and thinking of the mystery 

the lonely crate

he's done it again
as many times, the count is high
he cannot comprehend.
familiarity has become the demon
only he can truly see
it lingers at his touch and in it's work,
it is well pleased.
he never remembers too much
but in their names he finds much rest
they don't have a gripping hold on him,
he locks them in a box.
others tell him of their lonely crates
which leaves his own, to weigh him down
'why must my box
captivate this hopeful broken crown' he thinks.
give me hope in the darkness
that i will see the light,
he heard as he watched his crown fall down
god, must be laughing now.
he returns to his filthy sheets
they hug his body close,
he's lost the keys to his lonely box
'you've been found out'
he hears.
afraid of what will happen next
he reaches for his spare
he's a coward, a liar, and a thief
and will forever sleep in fear