STRUGGLE

spliced in this crevice
of muffled sanity and impulsive insanity
this repose
a cursed escape
from a spiteful bedlam
of an eccentric monotone

the line splits not knowing where to go

should it be total abnegation
of what was past?
or
an imprisoned suffocation
of a redolent present?

the air is just above the heavy water

i either drown
or
swim


can i not struggle with both?

be sane
and
insane?

be ephemeral
and
eternal?

silent

yet

heard?

the line is thin

BUT THE CHOICE IS CLEAR:

darkness and light
can never be congruent

nor can they even be seen
on the same plane

-pambie herrera
8/3/2003

UGLY HANDS

I have
Ugly hands
Not worn
Not weathered
Just plain
Ugly.

Short
Almost stubby
Fingers.
Nails
Shaped strangely
Mine
Like my mother's.

I have
My mother's hands
Worn
Weathered
Now.
Beautiful.