Hour Thirteen (One Side of a Coin) 11:11

Cracking the shell of identity
tiptoe down the minefield
of popular opinion –
to where even the waters
of emotion are infiltrated
by metallurgic constructs
intended to eviscerate
the existence of personal desire
and choice.
Mindful and with agile movements,
slink through with nimble reflexes
in one’s pursuit of happiness.
Bone white shells empty
of the embryotic components
of the potential future life-
exiled into the bellies of opinion
and methods with which to avoid
the tripwire –
of enemy landmines shrouded in rubble.

There is no map
or destination set-
just a juggernaut tumbling
through an emotional gauntlet.
The eggshells tossed haphazardly
like a Rorschach test
that can never be passed,
despite it’s obvious intent
of metaphorical subjectivity.
Jutting edges crushed under
bare feet bearing the
teeth marks of projected shame-
a shaking of heads
knitting sweaters on brows.
Bottles swing over barstools
with inebriated idle passing curiosity
and drunk from the power of influence
well-intended or otherwise
and then…

…another explosion
rapping like an unwanted guest
at the door to the outlook of destination-
inner monologue, a stammer
tripping over the vice grips
of crowd control.
The sting of well-intentioned advice
some, averting a potential threat-
others a lead to cause to question
whether shadenfreude the main pursuit.
Listen to the click and clatter of
shell casings within a
machine gun spray of
yes’s and no’s
stops and go’s.
Pulse cocking back the hammer
filleting the insides of my chest
with the knockback
as yet another dull crack
rips open the firmament-
a delayed response to prospective dreams,
conquests, and purpose.
Feet enshrouded with padded guilt
tripping over thoughts and decisions
balking at every opportunity
before another rumble from
the bowels of misstep-
the punishment, a barrage
of cut-downs with the crowd’s arsenal
of serrated objection.

Walk upon the balls of feet,
slipping upon the curvature
massaging the arch of back of yet
another stumbling block-
each movement tentative
until one considers the subtle
voice of truth whispered
in spiritual ears that can become muffled
by the sounds of a silent roar-
a clamor of impression.
Indentations pressed with nails to palm.

When one finds stillness within oneself
the noise becomes muted
like cotton on a speaker.
Whisper a response to that voice
a prayer for clarity and confidence.
Steady the swallow of breath
catching like a love knot
within one’s throat
tied up and twisted
until intuition and discernment unravels
the barbed-wire chokehold
and watch as personal truth
and decision-God’s voice and timing
smooths out the path.