Reading Poetry At The Bay On A Park Bench — Image by kenne
At My Worst
I am a mirror cracked by sunset,
a horse breaking loose
from its tether of silence.
The river in me floods
with impatience,
its banks lined
with thorn and song.
I carry my own shadow—
it bites, it burns,
it wails like a child
left in the field at dusk.
But still—
when the night lilies open,
when my blood
is a red guitar string,
I blaze with a joy
you cannot cage.
If you would have my dawn,
you must walk
through the storm of me,
barefoot,
unafraid.
— kenne
