Halo – A poem.

I sit on the porch
for hours, watching clouds
and sun dip to touch
the peaks of houses
and give halos to everyone
that walks past.

But in a wicker chair
I don’t have a halo.
I am a casual observer.
Thinking about
but never wandering about,
I pretend to write
about the world and
that I matter.

But I am a speck.
I am not better than anyone.
How can I be—
I never move.
Detached from the blur
of existence, I am
barely better than nothing.

And that will never change.

Never, unless I stand,
push away from the wicker
and walk out into the fading sun
so I can have a halo
of my own.


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