napowrimo 2017: #7

born with
the piscean calm
of a glassy lake,
my peace
forged itself in grief
kiln-glazed with lost innocence.

(a dull
greenish-blue,
i think.)

behind my enduring belief
in miracles
is the world weary soul
of an immortal.

i remember
bloody pasts;
i’ve lived through
better futures.

i know we recover
(not always),
yet suffer the paradoxical sin
of short memory.

still.
there are limits.

immortality
isn’t divinity.
i am only of this
i did not create it.

so, like the rest,
i endure the riddle
of why we keep returning
as ourselves.