Cactus flowers unfold
in the stark desert light,
while chandeliers somewhere else
weep crystal tears
onto polished marble.
Look closer,
at those society crowns
with gilded laurels.
Some crave the roar of the crowd,
their lives a parade shimmered
by golden faucets trembling
and manicured lawns,
with every prop gleaming.
Others wrap themselves
in quiet studies,
sipping the dust and dreams
that veils the sun.
They’ll chase the dark spotlight,
where silent scripting exists
beyond the masquerade ball flitting.
Silks and sequins will be
carefully constructed shells,
a smile painted on
to hide hollow ache within,
the cavern echoing
with unseen emptiness.
But the humble ones,
they’re the deep roots,
the quiet breath of winds.
Their truth unfurls
in desert blooms,
unfurling, genuine.
When your spirit grazes
the unworldly silk of the infinite,
when the spark of imagination
ignites like dry kindling,
then you are remade,
a sudden friction
of light and shadow,
a consciousness
dreaming itself awake.
An awe
that expands the chest,
scarier only
if the heart is a closed fist.
An echo of a single,
resonant word
from the canyon walls
of existence.
