To me…there is the possibility of
fear…
fear of what is known
fear of the unknown.
To me…there is the possibility of…
strange thoughts submerged in routine.
Always an angst devil looking over my shoulder…misinterpreting what I mean.
A heart so full it reaches into the throat.
Tranquility resides nearby…but never takes off her coat.
Panic, panic, say what?
Don’t panic, don’t panic…
the only words that I can breathe.
I look inward to a wild rose bush with thorns…
the beauty does not relieve.
She stared directly into the sun! Soon thereafter, she fell ill for a brief period of time. This illness…to her, abstract…obscure. Difficult to witness. Hard to bear.
And, though I struggled with my own sense of reality!
Pain is pain.
Pain is never done.
In my own reality…’who had I been to judge?’
Despondency has been set before my eyes.
As if placed forever.
As if, I wished to cry.
If I were to step away and come back…
Tears would have held the same appeal.
And, a simple thought,
‘No reprise for the meek. Nor the rich. Just a cynical attempt at the god’s wishing us to feel!’
Minus pride,
I gaze upward.
Toward the elusive static that are the fingers of torment.
Arrogant are the attempts to see the obscurities for what…they are.
Nothing but mere intensely formidable, live-in scars.
And, I?
I am nothing but the wick to the flame…burning ever so bright.
Eternally adjusting the delicate balance.
That is my willingness to fight.
Eccentric and silent.
Impasse its tepid talent.
When the unassuming mayhem washes over me.
I am aghast at the deliverance.
How quick pain floods transference.
And,
how militant thoughts become the solid ground…
The only point of resistance.
Random thoughts, poems, and opinions. *Opinions are subject to change. - Nathan Harrell
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I am Brangien [Brangaine] of Weisefort, Ireland, lady-in-waiting to my cousin Isolde, who became promised to King Marc of Cornwall. His nephew Tristan escorted us to England by ship. But Tristan and Isolde fell in love at sea. As ye may know, or will find out, they cite the philter they drank as the cause, over which I was supposed to keep vigil. I would like to share my perspective of how I have created good in the world through my herbs and observations. There is much to tell, including how I have adopted this odd language. In good time. My life is in God’s hands. –Inspired by the modern French translations of the Tristan and Isolde texts
And he saith vnto them, Follow mee: and I will make you fishers of men. Matthew 4:19 (1611 KJV)
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