09-05-2017, 09:31 AM
Together, Apart
Together
He saw oversized scrubs, a body trying its very hardest
to fill every last stitch and pocket, endearingly,
honestly fit, she fashioned it and flowed freely,
through halls, two workers, perfect unison in hand and mind
chained to a soul duty, a personal creed
backgrounded by a full set of stars and stripes,
uniform, ammunition toted in a 50-pound camo backpack.
It made her back arch, ache, and upon a 95-pound frame,
still bore the mass of he and his whole world.
Her nervous ball of energy collided with his calm introversion,
fusion of two became ironically bonded
coincidentally, positives and negatives interlacing
with dancing beauty, apparent imperfection, and silent pain.
papers flew by, whipped up in the frenzy,
marked by cohort, professor, and friend alike
no restraint was held by any
except for the two involved. They knew
the importance of patients over self.
Demons drag deeply, not even the most delicate
dancer can spin away from such capricious claws.
Steps once in unison, a common music shared,
show signs of delineation eventually. Rhythm rules man, but
woman need not waltz away from her own path
just to match his heartened attempts at keeping tempo.
Life is more than that dance, no matter how
interesting the back and forth makes it.
She will sway to her own symphony,
he will watch and listen.
Apart
Sometimes silence is peace, nothing
to worry of but breath and blood,
nothing fills the lungs, expands and seeps slowly
into vessels, carrying weightless cargo on the backs of billions
calming countless masses
Sometimes silence is war, chaos
orders the air all around, vibrations rattle bones and tear skin
chaos scrambles jets and unleashes rivers,
tears stream and hearts push salinated gallons
She will stumble forward, blind of her future
tripping on her past, but the steps she takes are hers,
no bigger than a size 3, the impressions she leaves
sink foundations and shatters frames, but she will never pass
without first picking up the pieces and perhaps stopping
to build him an easel. Her journey is art, splatter painting
over Las Meninas, finding La Guernica amidst the technicolor streaks.
There is no shame in her following the brush’s stroke
instead of pushing the paint where it does not want to go.
He does not have a woman, but he has his morals,
a compass bouncing around like flubber,
hoping to find a sturdy surface that attracts him
rather than the one-legged wooden stools
he finds himself so often stuck under,
old chewed gum, long void of flavor.
Perhaps his gray putty will, one day, dissolve into beautiful
palates of paint that will splash and streak on her canvas,
but a caterpillar does not try to figure out how to become a butterfly,
he just becomes one.
Until then, he has a friend.
Together
He saw oversized scrubs, a body trying its very hardest
to fill every last stitch and pocket, endearingly,
honestly fit, she fashioned it and flowed freely,
through halls, two workers, perfect unison in hand and mind
chained to a soul duty, a personal creed
backgrounded by a full set of stars and stripes,
uniform, ammunition toted in a 50-pound camo backpack.
It made her back arch, ache, and upon a 95-pound frame,
still bore the mass of he and his whole world.
Her nervous ball of energy collided with his calm introversion,
fusion of two became ironically bonded
coincidentally, positives and negatives interlacing
with dancing beauty, apparent imperfection, and silent pain.
papers flew by, whipped up in the frenzy,
marked by cohort, professor, and friend alike
no restraint was held by any
except for the two involved. They knew
the importance of patients over self.
Demons drag deeply, not even the most delicate
dancer can spin away from such capricious claws.
Steps once in unison, a common music shared,
show signs of delineation eventually. Rhythm rules man, but
woman need not waltz away from her own path
just to match his heartened attempts at keeping tempo.
Life is more than that dance, no matter how
interesting the back and forth makes it.
She will sway to her own symphony,
he will watch and listen.
Apart
Sometimes silence is peace, nothing
to worry of but breath and blood,
nothing fills the lungs, expands and seeps slowly
into vessels, carrying weightless cargo on the backs of billions
calming countless masses
Sometimes silence is war, chaos
orders the air all around, vibrations rattle bones and tear skin
chaos scrambles jets and unleashes rivers,
tears stream and hearts push salinated gallons
She will stumble forward, blind of her future
tripping on her past, but the steps she takes are hers,
no bigger than a size 3, the impressions she leaves
sink foundations and shatters frames, but she will never pass
without first picking up the pieces and perhaps stopping
to build him an easel. Her journey is art, splatter painting
over Las Meninas, finding La Guernica amidst the technicolor streaks.
There is no shame in her following the brush’s stroke
instead of pushing the paint where it does not want to go.
He does not have a woman, but he has his morals,
a compass bouncing around like flubber,
hoping to find a sturdy surface that attracts him
rather than the one-legged wooden stools
he finds himself so often stuck under,
old chewed gum, long void of flavor.
Perhaps his gray putty will, one day, dissolve into beautiful
palates of paint that will splash and streak on her canvas,
but a caterpillar does not try to figure out how to become a butterfly,
he just becomes one.
Until then, he has a friend.
I've always wanted to live in a world where it's okay to pronounce both L's in my name.