The Ladder

I release it. Let the steam escape
from this freshly baked loaf of bread. I cut it.

It’s a light bleed. Careful relief, as I begin
a new escapade of hope, embark upon what I deem
horrifying optimism, roll up my Nietzschean doubts.

I take the morning’s hand,
like a child being led to the end of the dock.

The water is the most natural receptacle of sorrows.
She was the mirror before mirrors were.

I want no one to find me, no one
to see me, no heroes to ride up and no saviors
to come comfort me.

This is a ladder.
Which way should I climb?

What are items to me, if not just extensions
of what I believe; what is loss to me, what is death
but the recycling of matter, infinity merely the space
for things to grow.

We do not deserve anything, yet
we are worthy. I trust this.

I once watched a Turkish man paint water.
Colorful inks he spilled, and with grace
pulled the pigments with blunt needles over the pool.

What can I pull across the face of time?
Am I weaving as I should?

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