Scattered birch bones about the way…
Classics bellow below.
Sometimes I talk to the angels.
They appear as dust on the rays of the sun.
‘No, no, sweetheart your pilgrimage has just begun.’
And, though, my footing grabs at my destiny…
Strangely, strange, it is the wilderness that sets my spirit free.
A dare, one would say.
As the winged mystique call those that wander to the way…
And, though the hike runs on empty.
The serenity symphony tempts and provokes me.
The eyes of forest know…
I do not see all there is…
all there is to know.
Plummeting to a gravel road.
Cascading city on wheels.
Eighteen wheeled miscreants.
Playing heavy metal solos to the articulation of my heart.
An infinitely booming question begs…
ON what is this sense of impending doom…fed?
Arguments with tension’s gods?
Or, shall I remain ‘fetal with anxieties odds?’
Punch drunk breaks of acceptance and it’s dawn…
Amass along my daily way.
Leaving me fetal at vanities reflection.
A righteous temptress would slay such a transgression.
Yet, I am but one woman.
Grasping at restless overgrown weeds with my shaky hands.
However, infantile. I am.
A victim to panic’s potion.
Often found at wit’s end.
Frequently unaware of which commotion that will set the wheels of fear…
Freedom…Just another word for nothing left to lose.
As the season’s merge…
I cannot help but think of how it is with us.
The inherited panic and fear.
The constant need to disappear.
Just when a trail has been laid…
Just as time has been weighed…
Our over shadowed life becomes displayed.
And, with that knowledge,
we continue to bear the fruit.
An oath to a world of soiled roots.
It is an overcast day.
Guess, sometimes it has to be that way.
Civilized words for a shut book.
Theology has yet to devise a means in which to get you…
off the hook.
No matter how much I scour my mind…
with the salts of the earth…
The winds of change have not stopped.
They take comfort in the calm before the storm.
Yet, they are never completely gone.
And, so the story goes,
some hostages are held by fear and dread.
Others by a custom-made bed.
Which form of abuse is to your liking?
The choice never had been yours
to make anyway…
Though it had always been your voice at stake
Just another orgasm faked…
Choices, options, delusions of narcissistic grandeur…
Why not a familiar bent take on beat her down pleasure?
They all say twice more than what they hear
Guardians of hand-me-down fear.
Everyday serving up a family owned tactile recipes
Everyday reminders turned mystery thrillers.
Everyday the salts that eat the pillars.