To me…there is the possibility of
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!’
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.
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.
how militant thoughts become the solid ground…
The only point of resistance.