Poetry, that's it. Just poetry.

Ship of Theseus
She is no longer.
And she has not been
for a while either.
But the skin is the same,
for the most part.
The nose, the mouth,
and the ears, are the same.
The scars, the moles,
the birthmarks are the same.
But the way she walks,
is different. Very different.
And even she knows this,
and she sometimes wonders
if it is foolish to try and walk at all,
to try and bring something back
from the dead.
But she's very good at rationalizing,
she's very good at reasoning,
and at justifying,
it's what she does best,
it's what she believes
she doees best.
So she keeps walking.
Keeps trying to bring
herself back from the dead.


Sex
To surrender.
To take control.
To release all inhibition.
To put everything in its place.
To write.
To branch out.
To branch in, and away.
To slide over and steal,
a moment.
For safekeeping.
To joke,
in love's face,
and say, "See?"
I can do it.
I can do it just fine.
I can bend your rules,
and lock you away.
And even though
you always infiltrate
you are still always one step behind.


Like a refuge
When these things happen,
and people turn to dust,
or they wilt, or whatever you may call it.
There are steps.
Precautions one must take.
Step one is to bathe.
Step two is to bundle.
Step three is to isolate.
And step four is different for everyone.
Maybe you re-integrate,
maybe you need more time,
maybe you can't do it by yourself.
So you start over,
or split yourself into two,
so that one of you may hibernate,
and the other may nurse you back to health.
Like a sick and dying dog
who's been taken in by a nun with a heart of gold.
But you must be careful,
because you are not a dog,
and you are not sick, nor dying.
And because a heart cannot be made of gold,
and maybe nuns do exist, but they do not exist for you.

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