orchestra

there are instruments
playing an orchestra in my thoughts,
rising notes slip through the
the door of my room, slightly ajar,
silent music above
the bustle of movement below me.

I am in a tuxedo, the shining black bow tie
and starched caucasian shirt
scratches thin lines at my neck. am I
overdressed for the musical masterpiece
about to open
with a high note behind my eyes?

yes, I have the same acedia
as those below, a slow swirling of rhythmic
disarray, a drumming of harsh deeds with my
every step
in momentarily tight dress shoes.

we are weak, the door ajar is shut
and the bustle beneath is forgotten,
turning our
two-faced hearts in the light of
clean, immaculate instruments.

our crowded homes are filled with
those like us
starched, itchy and shining with a
beautiful hypocrisy.

acedia

there are flowers growing beneath the snow
ignoring my acedia
flowers of all things, white lilies and tinted blue roses,
some jungled vines I do not recognize.
They are peering at me through the ice as though to say
how strange, a human growing beneath the snow.

But they are here,
watered by miniscule shards of old roses.
At second glance, they are dandelions of flowers,
only simple weeds growing beneath the snow,
making deep roots so removal feels impossible.
but with the right tools,
all of love is uprooted.

But I know we will wait
beneath various trees and benches and sidewalks,
to see if spring
and rain and sunshine
will make us whole. will make us bloom again.