When it is said
Something told me
Something made me
I sensed something-
where is the body
of the thing
that sometimes
does not resemble
Us
Like things
that feel or don't feel
Right?
Aren't we feeling
Some
Thing...
Artwork by Robert Lewis Reid, 'The Mirror' c. 1910 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
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.
Back to wood decks, quarter-size spiders, webs, moss and creatures stirring in the hollow nights Back to no side-walks and skirting into th...
