By: Tricia Cherie Pickenpaugh

Nothing is reckless,
yet nothing is tame.
Tossed like a hatchet,
straight to the brain.

Perception lies shattered,
you’ve forgotten who’s at fault.
Flawless is grimy,
putrid is pure.

Look up, little baby, ’cause you’re an adult.
Fingers and failure,
temptations and guilt.
Not sure what you’ve spilt,
but you know it’s not milk.

Altered and jaded,
but it’s oh, so much more.
You never caught wind,
lost the key,
where’s the door?

Spit, salt, and ocean tides engulf
till you hit the thin splash between life and death.
You hold everything in your vest,
and this you feel, is consciousness.

Always alive but always asleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.