tip of the bomb



In days of strength

I ponder thee with open heart.

My hands hold my hands

       holding nothing.

Joy is weightless.

It is delighted with the lightness

       of the burden of the void.

I have destroyed the image of myself

I found buried with the bones of my childhood.

In the shadow of the wildwood,

I resurrected the shadow of my past

      and put golden bullets through the heartless place it lived from.