They strobe like the lights of fireflies in the summer
infused bits of lived magic exist between
the words and lives of persons non-living.
I spoon them out, seek them, savory and tangible secrets—
their therapeutic release
beneath the guise of a poem or story—
to be hidden in plain sight, a momentary acquittal
in the lives of others, junctures in existence
where they cavort between past and present.
I live for this—identifying these enigmas,
most fail to see the pieces of us,
soldered beneath a world
where our actions are not judged or even recognized.
Cloaked experiences galivanting through pages of impalpable pasts
our unrecognized strengths or faults
beloved and nebulously strewn upon pages for unassuming eyes.
What is my own narrative?
An unloved girl, a girl fermenting in a place without reason
reaching for a beacon of light in the center of the ocean?
An unafraid woman, wily and studious with an eye
to the side to watch you and these fictional
pieces of me or them, each arcane beat of this
heart conveniently synced with my compass of morality.
Photo Credit: classroomcamera Flickr via Compfight cc
