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the lookingglasseye: A Voyage of Years
by Howard James Miller III
She stepped forth onto the cold concrete step.
It's gray creeping,
crawling to embrace the city.
A spiderplex of webbing,
with which she was one,
a mere digit in a directory of lost souls,
one with pages soiled from use.
The stains like coffee on a napkin,
carelessly spilt in an urgent morning of presumed importance,
looking for someone whom you could have loved,
if in that mere moment you could have found the strength and stamina.
With a jolted movement and a hardened stare,
she broke forth into the traffic.
The beauty of chaos,
insects of their own design,
with exoskeletons of pale porcelain,
translucent and shallow they gleam.
Shells of humans pushing and shoving,
in all directions, with no direction.
Her mood lay heavy on her like white weather,
the precipitation of ice,
insulating mother earth from the cityscape.
A computer chip grid of technological progress.
A stitched wound upon her face.
A deepened scar remembered so dearly from childhood,
playing in the garden.
It took all that she could muster to penetrate the crowd.
She envisioned herself a great gladiator thrust into the pit,
a miasma of paradox,
to bear a valiance that isn't,
to struggle willfully for someone else's.
She was looking for something akin to a beginning,
one which would last forever,
an infinite moment within the now,
for all eternity;
this concept,
she decided to call truth.