disrupting the fragile balance of this garden

metastasizing over roots and flowers

disquieting the lives well-led

she demands i uproot them

winnow out the unworthy

expel them from the earth

a compulsory task

she doesn’t know their secret

(or maybe she doesn’t care)

but i know–

i know every single seed

contains multitudes

golden threads 

braided across time–

a refrain of past lives

hidden treasure

some childish hope

disguised beneath

gentle armor

a wish released and sold

the bees agree!

flashes of gold

zipping toward the weeds

the very same

parts of a whole

i sit amongst my weeds

listen

for the whispers

of a thousand wishes

promised on the wind

I may have spread myself too thin 

Leaving the most fragile barrier between me              and the world. 

So if you come knocking on my door 

The sound may not travel further than the distance      between            us. 

There may not be enough of myself 

For you to reach. 

I have convinced myself that what remains is made of glass 

So that anyone who steps forward to take a closer glance 

Can see the scratches littering the surface. 

But I have forgotten how 

too 

many 

layers 

Can also distort judgment. 

And as I keep my eyes trained on the mirror, 

Your every move 

I see that you are made of glass too. 

(But I don’t understand why you can’t love me the way I love you) 

But perhaps, while I try my hardest to recognize 

The shards you shared with me 

(Your voice is stuck between the cracks.) 

Perhaps, when you knocked on my door 

I could only focus on my own rotten temper. 

(Or maybe, you never even knew I was waiting) 

When I cringe at the audacious desperation of others, 

I fail to realize I am making faces                                                         at my reflection. 

As the world shatters to pieces on my threadbare carpet 

I think I would like a friend more than I’d like a psychic. 

– aroshi

Please note that the form is slightly condensed to fit for print versio