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I turn to spurn the light of truth;
too bright it shines eternally,
so now I search my darkened youth
for life without a history.

I lived with primal fear inbred,
a wingless mountain butterfly,
who waited death, entrapped by dread,
within mad vision graves to die.

Now brick by brick brought out of soil
filled crimson rich with reds, infused
through marrow, bone and muscled toil
which fed a life now bled confused.

My frame was made with snow-puff clouds
of cauliflower velvet pale;
a gift to birth proud earth endowed
so angel grace might shame travail.

The flaws we forge are deep within
to hide inside our feckless form!
Our outer garments soiled in sin
will hail no harbinger of storm.

Each layered cut is foul and spent
yet no stitch thrown shows obvious
but fabric labored, torn and rent
has images quite spurious.

And this we carry to our grave
in extant bliss with ignorance.
No worthy worry left to save
before the black of permanence.

A life once sewn with threads of smoke,
translucent trends in lunacy,
becomes illusion's buried yoke -
a veil of failed transparency.

Learn more about this author, Tom Mcmurray.
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