Wilting

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