Revisions of Me

Proud

There's a broken geode in the yard struck by some chance encounter. Like a piece of a broken heart, crystal chambers exposed skyward.

Are we always more beautiful fragmented and discarded? Tragedies like Paul Broussard, Mathew Shepherd, Angie Zapata, Martha Oleman, and others all gay Black Dalhia. Men and women forgotten, sometimes homeless, washing up on shores rural and urban.

Robbed of life and sparkle, freshly bloody and still. Still enough you can examine them now. When in life they were a blur of motion, too fast for conservative photos exposure, too large in life for such a limited lens aperture.

Count them now, but know you count mountains and yet they are numerous as grains of sand.

They who love too much and live too much. They are not of any universal variety except that of caring and guarding well each others secrets. In this coven of kings, queens, and delicate hearts there is room for all manner of majesty and beauty.

They are not simple, black and white, or ordinary. Vibrant is a crown, shared equally. They rule their kingdoms as sovereigns, but extend an olive branch to those who would live and love in peace, in relief.

Maybe some day the war will be over and Pride will again be something we can all have equally. Proud to be human again and not less than, or greater than. Proud to be free from tiny people trying to be angels while polishing horns and hooves. As if Heaven was ever reached by descending a stairway of hate.