A thing to die for

What is a thing to die for?
Is it large or small?
Is it sturdy or delicate?
Can you sell it?

I can imagine the things I would die for.
They're multi-faceted.
Sometimes I like to think that they are small enough to hide beneath my thumb.
What I fail to realize is that they are hiding me.

What is a thing to die for?
Is it cheap or expensive?
Is it tangible or existential?
Can you taste it?

I sometimes imagine having the things I would die for.
They're massive.
Sometimes I write poems about them in order to carry them with me.
What I fail to realize is how they smear like ink that hasn't dried.

What is a thing to die for?
Is it sweet or bitter?
Is it trivial or important?
Can you justify it?

I sometimes imagine having the things I would die for. 

Skyline Borders

Skyline borders outline my horizon

They puncture the sun so that the light is distorted

My eyes grew acclimated to blindness. 

I was always able to see. 

But one time I went down to Chesapeake. 

To see my cousins. They're eyes seemed lighter

as if the sunlight kissed their irises. 

And while they walked the beachfront, I ambled 

Unsure of where the ground laid before me. 

I wondered if perhaps I was blind. 

But then when I turned west, I saw the mountainside

pierce the sun so that the light is distorted. 

I like to think West Virginia has no skyscrapers

because nature already provided them their skyline border. 

When I returned to my skyline border, my eyes panicked 

only for a second, until artificial light saved it from blindness. 

I was snug in my steely cage, waiting for a distorted sun to set.

Finally, I can see.