layers

you were deep before you knew it,

many exits away from some kind of Satori,

but growing younger by the day,

I met you at the end of a Chet Baker trill,

soon you shot me with Miles Davis staccato,

I patched myself up with Bill Evans' hurt,

and woke up to know,

the soul is made perfect through failing,

like a pristine moment of letting go,

with the heart leading and fear trailing,

like lying awake by the window,

listening to rain ringing off a rusty railing.