Sometimes help coming our way
Is not meant to be supportive
But to cut through all the layers
Of personas and game-players,
Like a lover's heavy truth
Reaching home inside of you,
Making ocean's ripples smooth
To better reflect the sky
And a human's inner eye.
Sometimes that help
Comes disguised,
As a Satan or a Christ,
As a shadow or a dove
Or a blunder made on purpose.
Sometimes help
Comes as a weed
In rich soil planted deep.
Tread around it
with great care
As it makes you more aware.
