Taryn Ziegler
With a furrowed brow my reflection looks back
with a raised hand itching to slap my
hallowed face, shadows weep in tears of gray
veins under stony eyes – my reflection’s
halo glints dully in the foreground illuminated
by the stale swinging light of my hazy lamp
Itch scratched it looks back and my
past floods like a rolling tide into the
shores of my present
Raised hands and chins upturned we are
worshipping a higher power whose kindly
smile filters benevolently down kind smile
a farce a face for insufferable rage
and disgrace a face of hypocrisy and
inconsistency but I get ahead of my
Self
My tarnished halo glints wear-free and
I see the passion and the force behind
the belief in something greater in
a rule book to outline the ambiguous edges
of a blurry life a goal post and
a goal-tender tender a judge
with a gavel crushing that I loved
vaguely
Quietly battling demons of deceit and
uncertainty a pillar of faith a
scholar of truth wielding dusty pages
in a world torn asunder thunder
breaking down and deafening my ears
to objections some my own
A stick in my spinning spokes sent haloed
me flying
And here I am dying in line for Hell.
Clamor 