Options of Escape

It was always an option;
the chance of escape from the everyday,
the routine, the mundane.
An epiphany of wanderlust and
the ideals of those post-grad, 20-somethings
still clinging to their
divinely endowed potential.

The lie of being content now revealed;
that surrogate stories were all the travel necessary
was a fool’s fantasy;
that imagination and
the ability to translate the stories of others,
manifest their magnificence,
were enough.

Things lost that were never owned,
ideals implanted from media and music.
The cowl of adulthood lies heavy with
the knowledge that the
past has passed and
there is no going back.

We fall, warriors cut apart by
time’s rusty blade, learning nothing;
faux-philosophers who cling to clichés and
parrot the same concerns that add
not wisdom, but
exhaustion.

by Erik Shinker

Echoes

The accordion ebb and flow of
infatuation. Waltzing, Parisian
lovers entwined. They once stood
silhouetted in the hazy ember of
Sunday twilight.
Separated by a plague, their world
halted on its axis and spun the opposite.
They shout toward one another as a
fissure flexes and casts them away from each other.
Their ears cupped to hear as their cries fade and
echo; eventually lost to any reverberation.

by Erik Shinker

A Vision

She is a vision I once had,
though created by something far more powerful.
A reflection of Her,
immaculate in her beauty and grace.

Her smile, an ivory signal of
laughter and joy.
Hands,
delicate,
with long fingers to
caress and coax.
A slender frame, to
be held,
passing warmth from flesh to palm.

She is something beyond
possession, beyond
me.
She is all that is good in the world, and
I only ask for the attention to
let her know it.

But, I don’t know her, or
if she’d even want to know me.

by Erik Shinker

Mother

Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms out there!

Perpetually Past Due

Strength despite frustration;
the natural enemy of death as
the embodiment of creation.
Venerated for the gift she gives,
we would be nothing without her;
she is sometimes taken for granted,
despite our best intentions.

Soft enough to nurture, she
hides a fury for
the safety of her
cubs, her
chicks, her
creation.

She is sacrifice;
from the nigh unbearable pain of
birth through the attrition of
daily struggle.
And though it may seem
piecemeal in comparison, she
renews her promise with each
Daughter’s rising and setting Son.

We owe everything to her,
for better or worse;
though for the best, more
often than not.
Some have said that God is Love;
they forget their Mother.

by Erik Shinker

View original post

Variations On a Theme

A tale told by an idiot, as
the most exalted of English writers
once wrote.
Stories are what encompass us;
the human experience uniform in
its variation.
Contact, community, care, and compassion
at odds with
isolation, indignity, indiscretions.

Our experience in this life defined
not by those who would enforce their
own narrative, but by how
we choose
to write our story.

Our strength is in our fragility;
our downfall in refusing to recognize this.
We are a community of individuals,
telling our unique stories in the same ways,
combined through creation;
variations on a theme
sung into being by
Something other.

by Erik Shinker

Validation

Tell me I’m
handsome,
beautiful,
talented,
wanted,
needed.

Tell me that
you love me, that
you only want to be near me, that
you can’t live without me, that
I’m yours, and
no one else’s.

Tell me you’ll be there
for me, for
yourself, for
us.

Tell me I’m
worth it, I’m
not giving up, I’m
not alone in this.
Lie to me, if
you have to.

by Erik Shinker