Pronoun

No singularity defines her and she is bound by no laws.

She dances to the wind with the grasses and trees.

She is starlight and nothing physical or meta will bind her. She is not a chocolate to be unwrapped, a body to be undressed. She is sunshine and unspoken words. Nameless as a breath, but just as vital.

She is stormy, a fierce water wide and strong. She calls tempest or she calls calm.

She is purpose and purposeful.

She resides beside a hateful void of pitch and ire. She holds the key to Pandora’s box which was originally broke ope by Adam. She has condemned Adam.

She is judge, jury and life giver. Life bringer. She wields only arrows of Truth.

She plays and toys and laughs a tune. She takes it in stride. She calls Death to play the serious role and she chooses Life.

She is unearthly though of this earth. She is not the rose of June.

She is yearning. She is desire. She is in spite of man’s folly. She is in spite of disaster.

She is timeless and truth. Truth beauty.

Endless.

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Unconscious Blur

I recite my words to earth and sky
because I cannot fathom why
another would heed to hear me speak
these foul words and breath so deep
and dark and cold like mystery
unsolvable and undersea
a deep diver that never breathes
a lamplight fish that doesn’t see
that leads its prey unto its jaws
I will not grab you with my claws
that take the form of old complaints
of rants that fall without restraint
pour out from lips all chapped and grey
the skeletal remains from one black day
in which you witnessed flames lick clouds
now settled ‘round this city plowed
the dark brown spotted snow makes way
in the slippery streets for cars to stray
and slide around into poles as sky
comes crashing down I will not be the one
to sound alarm – no chicken little bitch to cry
the sky is falling the sky will fall
I hope this city gets buried, and with it all
the hopeless romantics, the addicts, the good
the bad, the ugly, the rich and poor – alike they should
see the end the same
the great, the able, and the lame
pretend to die together here
while really all alone in fear
to be individual has its price
as some will see though they seem nice
it all ends the same
as the brainwashed whole becomes insane.

Uncharted Territory

Maybe there’s a world around us,

That’s not exactly what it seems.

But nobody can wander there,

It’s only in your dreams.

Perhaps it haunts you day and night,

Or maybe not at all.

It’s really quite a mystery,

That no one can recall.

But everyone has a different place,

That they’d like to go.

And you may tell them it’s not real,

But you don’t really know.

Is there something living,

Either out in space, or in deep, deep earth?

You do not now what it is,

Or how much it’s worth.

But there’s something out there!

We’re each just dying to see.

Yet what it is, or where it is,

Is beyond you or me.

So yet we go on pondering,

And wondering more still.

Is there life beyond the stars?

Curiosity is still yet to spill.

Rainy Day

The soil churns around my feet
The muck, it pulls me down
I have my shovel firm in hand
And dig past green and brown.

I keep digging – hole or grave
or maybe tunnel of escape? –
But with no plan, I cannot see
through the earth I do reshape.

Each particle of damp dirt here,
clings tight to my damned clothes.
The further down I dig, I think
on how or where this tunnel goes.

For though it is my hand that digs
my arm that thrusts the spade,
I don’t control, nor ever have
The piercing silver blade.

To stab and slay this crying dirt
and throw away some living plants.
The weeping willow has turned over
Despite the native prayers and chants.

The weather’s wreaking havoc;
the wind has riled leaves
to fly about, and it screams and shouts
as it huffs and heaves.

The unmarked smell of freedom
is the sweetest scent around;
it’s fresh cut grass and old pine trees,
but here it’s never found.

The toil, it produces sweat
and beads drip down my grubby face.
The unearthed worms writhe all about
Where are the moths, the Queen Anne’s Lace?

One day I may learn to find the pleasure in the toil,
until then, I hold my blade and slowly dig through soil;
The grimace held firm on my face would convince you the worst
befalls me daily, so untrue; I bear no great burden, nor a curse.

This path goes down, a tunnel round, a steep and jagged trail;
one day I’ll stop this digging craze and rest in final peace.
I’ll find that thing I search for,
And from this mud: release.