Lilys of the Field

There are things I miss — creating
a dull deep ache, buried beneath
the edge of my lungs, struggling to
swell and make living easy. It resides
in the simplicity of every day as time
slips through my fingers like melted butter,
leaving an unquenchable scent, neither
pungent nor elegant. It reminds me of
the act of laughing, wafting through
the rafters that hold up the roof,
did we build on a solid foundation,
with sturdy walls painted with our dreams—
and within its absence the silence begins
to fill it with its own mocking laughter.
Perhaps that’s where our ghosts live—
carrying the weight of our regrets
and sorrows. Isn’t it their burden
to carry into the next whelm, anyway,
allowing us a little relief. I’m begging, please
take these away, and give me the chance
to become free from the chains society
and my mind has bound my wrists and ankles in,
turn me into a feather instead of the lead ball
I find myself staring at in the mirror.