Sunlight in the Pacific

Late afternoon, a Saturday,
spent out in a room much too detached
from the current state of affairs:
architecture, and mannerisms 
of the modern age.

Looking out, 
there’s a net keeping me in,
and keeping out trees,
that much more than me, 
glow, rustle in the air,
and tower above me indifferently
as I stare.

Of all the leaves, and words on the page, 
perhaps this one decides my fate, 
and the way I project outward,
or cut back on ambition
and learn the rhetoric of the spoken word.

And indent things a certain way,
purge the old-settled disdain
of my voice as I talk;
and distance myself
from the mundanity of it all.

A crowd from the past, 
away from the trees that shroud the sky,
bags that would tear from the seams
after a month, and I would crumble
on to the ground to rummage the loss;
veil my face for supposed incompetence
and successive shame,
induced by the stares
and smiles of ridicule.
May I find the courage to forgive, 
and move past the places
that I’ve lingered
for much too long.

Do scars mark our path?
Do solace and acclaim
not come at once, to compensate
for the time when
I could only weep from my heart?
And all those misty smiles
that get what they want,
oh I despise them,
the diluted, superficial, 
and scandalous in every
sense of the word.

Have I come to foster apathy underlying
in the hubris of being the helping hand
whenever it came at costs succinct?

There is difference,
the ‘brise soleil’ between me and trees,
sunlight and shade.
In solace I hear a drone of people;
only the window and me,
and the blow of a fan above…
Perhaps someday, I will find my way, 
or grow of age, as the trees, 
with decrepit leaves that fall;
tear a ligament from the seam,
and see the revelation crumble
under its weight;
it would all have been for nothing either way.

I’m as disturbed as the ocean.