Tensing, pulling, readiness, and resistance
as much as we can
gather
before -SNAP-
to hold a purpose
no more
holding together
Just
when life recoils, takes cover
inside
and becomes slack
limp before
taut
all comes back
to holding on-
to Nothing
tight.
Photo credit by Oroo, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
I stepped up to the mouth
of the dark hole,
a flicker catching my curious
necessity for heat
as in a fondness for friction
something strong stirs
in this cave
I come to find
as my eyes adjust
not some majestic dragon
as projected upon the moist stone wall
but a shriveled and scarred ogre
unseen to himself and flesh burnt
by the venomous flames uncoiling
from his own sharp tongue
lashing.
The smoke and singe surround every crevice
a decrepid and deathly stench
steams from his chest where
his heart rotted in the darkness
called some body and vacant vessel
vulnerable and afraid
of all the elements
that make
a man.
Photography: Albert Grünwedel (July 31, 1856 – October 28, 1935), Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
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.
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.
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.
Ghosted
by your own spirit,
soul stuck in a purgatory
until the facts are faced,
finally-
what then?
Lucid flesh like
apparition, unheard
and in between
pain and suffering-despair
and the need to
continue to breathe
cradling the heartbeat,
insisting endurance
and through it.
There was no There
there,
carbon copies of conceit,
echoing
'I was here'.
Nothing gained
without loss,
as if grief gave more
than it took
of Us
Distorted shadow figures
have mistaken
me
for empty.
Painting by Sergey Vinogradov, dated before 1938 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
I had a grip.
A naked palm clenched
around,
I had a handle on the thing
softly carrying it with me,
until I noticed
the odd itch of thick blood
sliding down and out
between my fingers.
Holding on too tight
but feeling nothing
of pain or wounds
after barely
holding on so long,
I observed myself
doing it wrong.
After all-
the petals had fallen
behind me
leaving
choices made for me.
No blessings to count,
no scent
to take in-
and it must have been dead
who knows how long...
Dried and brittle
piercing-
This is
how I knew
He loved me not.
Painting by Carolus-Duran, 'Portrait of Lucy Lee Robbins' by Carolus Duran, dated 1884 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Truth be told- The clean secrets are the ones most easily over-looked, like tiny happy pills, like big gulps of fermentation like bottled p...
