dis-content

a moment dis-missed

then and then again

trees fell like bodies

this time dis-appears

as if ours to waste.

Artwork by José Nin y Tudó (1840-1908), Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Plenty full

Dry dirt cratering

a doe glides across the yard

eats the fallen fruit.

Artwork by Franz Marc (1880-1916), titled 'Deer at Dusk' dated 1909 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Cardiac muscle

 

Any-one-of-Us

who have heard

the shattering of a heart,

of a world

fragmented, knows the 

intent to deafen each piercing note...

Those of Us 

who have struggled with intruding songs and scents, 

are stuck in a triggered trap, clamped

between sharp teeth

and resisting no more,

alone. 

Some of Us 

disagree 

with how lovely it is to have lost

than never have had

played a game we did not know.

Intuition, like embers emit no smoke,

but deep connections 

lean candle flames without a breeze.

It can be felt,

on fingertips, burnt leaves, ashes-

heat is Life.

Death is a dampening, silent

as in, buried Alive.

And I know

how these memories 

refuse departure.

On the ancient land where I now stand-

my story is held momentarily

footprints in the red dirt 

alone, cauterized, singed, 

and dappled with sunlight.

Fire with fire.

Most of Us

will not get that close

ever again.

None of Us

understand 

the heart that burns

and beats without Us

skipping over

tiny details like nails

hammered into the heartwood. 

Artwork by: Sigmund Grimm, dated 1520 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.