The dead weight, unwilling to rise, still does.
Grasp of hand, flex of arm are all it takes.
The great boulder, unwilling to move, blows
apart, scatters over mountainside, makes
lightning strike’s brutal purpose a success.
Find in that mix my will and heart, hoping
you won’t move me, won’t shatter my helpless
heart’s mass, its vast rhythm enveloping
nucleus of every cell (so it seems).
Hoping you won’t infiltrate my psyche,
control through slight motion my nightly dreams,
my daily actions classifying me.
Hoping your blazing gaze won’t burn through
my mask. Hoping you don’t see. But you do.
Roger Armbrust
September 2, 2014
