It's the cracks in the walls that
hold me steady while my soul shakes,
while forces of darkness and light
tear me apart,
And if his hands did move that way,
his mouth another, and if his
face held the angles of anger,
I did entirely take that onto me
through my pervious barriers of self.
What self, what self?
Without the transfers of
others through us,
what have we left, what have we left?
What have I left?
I have residue and fragments,
a series of advances and retreats,
a thorough progression
of my repeated circles inward
Sometimes I write them, sometimes I share them.