By John Thomas Tuft

I’m not sure I’ve believed anything that I feel

Or ever tasted any of the tears I shed

Were they the salt of sadness over some true loss?

Or the sweetness of finding my way home instead?

The pleasures of pain squirreled away in secret

Or the cleaving of a heart with a single stroke

From where you are all the way to being here with me

I was counting blessings until I went broke.

Like a blind man chasing shadows

Or a snowflake that throws off a spark

Don’t open me up with a needle

I’m finding my way home in the dark.