there’s a small jet engine
parked inside of my skull
and it runs 24 hours a day
seven days a week
ready to take off
at a moments notice
fueled by tiny shreds,
small bits of emotion
that stumble perilously near
and the roar it makes
pours out of my mouth
as endless conversation
like a hot exhaust
in the face of people
who draw near
for the spectacle

so i sit for a moment
and stare at the stained glass
across from my desk
that my wife applied
well enough that it looks real
and i am calmed by the light
that streams through
softs reds, some yellow
but mostly baby blue
and the engine stops
blissful silence spills in
a middle of the woods
on a warm summer’s day
rare kind of quiet
and i know for a time
that I’m in charge of how I feel
of what is false and what is real
but it takes effort to climb that hill
and find the space above it all
to sort out the paranoia
from the reality
that i have everything

tabula rasa