Grace Land - a prose poem

Grace Land

the miracle of everything is that nothing is a miracle.  it is meticulously fabricated with a piece of yarn, knitted delicately by fabled hands that personifies as a cosmic cloud in the middle ground of bullshit. it is vulgar. it is nasty. it is the epitome of garbage dumped, but unlike those fields of nonsense-plastics, these fabrications are wonderfully designed. like a boxed television that used to broadcast The Brady Bunch but now is a place holder as a rock for us to trip on. pixelated crystals housing colors that trained the human eye to pay attention, speakers broadcasting canned laughter from a trapped studio audience for enjoyment, but it now sits, cord ripped, unable to deliver its message. but it once did. we need not grieve a new home for human machines that have lost their value, because it does not matter that the value has diminished, it matters that it had value at all. a point in time. a point that time recalled can cause a memory reflex to trigger and gather up a storyline and a plot that gives gifts unto those that recalled. a baby born can grow into a man, fall from grace, leave behind a legacy but die a travesty, leaving behind a blessing and a curse. and who holds the puppet strings. who molds that yarn like clay. who is the mastermind of all this garbage, all this mismanagement. who cares. for the miracle of nothing is that everything is a miracle.

Theme Uknown - a simple poem.

windows upon windows to stare out of,
in home, car, school, my soul,
to see you in the arms of other men,
and to ponder suicide on a whims notice.
but also not, for time does pass us,
and seasons changed from warm, to scalding,
to chill, to chilled, and the sores were real,
but the memories endured. and on the other
end, you. still wholly you, learning, and growing,
and hurting, and also attacking in return.
the scorn felt deep in  your bones, but the love to
and the deep recesses of a heart once touched
that can't be untouched. muscle memory
maintained, and mind repaired. no more suicide,
no more faithless despair, just a hope that you'll be okay,
maybe a hint for me, but always the most for you.
for i find my two feet, and i place them on the walk,
and you can be there too, side by side, but separate if you need to.
i am too forgiving of my hurts, and I'll endure it
because i felt it, and you can't deny the feeling.
so that seasons may come again, or not, and that truly your
face may linger in the memories of moonlight
spent driving you home, as coupled, as singled, as friends,
and as dreams. whatever the seasons bring, and whatever
the water washes up of you, be it a strain of your hair,
I'll be thankful to have known it, even if it ends up being
a fleeting tick of the second hand, even while I long for the minute
and only just missed the hour strike, and the bell tolls,
and what can I say, but I'm sorry, but I'm better now,
a life long learner, regretful of mistakes made, and
willing to grow to be better next time with you, with her,
with whoever it may be. I've never been one to unlove
the love, easier to slice through air than it is to unlove,
love.