Finite Games

A paradigm shift.

And I used to love to get all prettied up 
in my tulle skirts and hard bones, those 
white-knuckled knobs twisting and jutting 
forth from my thin skin like gnarled tree branches,
or bubbling forth like a knurl of warty witch skin.
And I wore my scars like jewelry, 
the bijoux of broken logic, cataclysmic cognitive 
failure in the cavernous purples and frightening 
whites of my marbled scar tissue arms. 
I wanted to embody that beautiful sadness, 
that dark stain of romantic blood. But I didn’t understand 
depth and darkness and I still don’t, 
though I’d like to think I have a better grasp of context. 
I fight 
against falling back to the complacence.
I know that it is not fully in my control. 
I’m
changing 
my 
perspective.
I’m
seeing colors that were always there. I’m breaking
up the pieces and finding new fits, letting go as flow.
I’m deciding that
this finite game is now infinite. 

Reviews

[The Iron Horseman]

Beautifully done! A series of very evocative images, eruditely expressed, and an uplifting conclusion. I liked this very much. Keep up the good work! :)