I cannot be the wilting inexperience,
The hope hung on the glass bottles of trees
Clear as mud peering through the veil of time
Counting the measures of the day;
I cannot be the experienced,
With every known variable in palm-sized pamphlets,
Confidence eluding from a light that never dims
And floods an overwhelming tide that shatters mortar;
I can be the filtered sun through the choreographed stain glass
That resides between the pages here and now