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.
Low lying branch on a fertile apple tree.
You are shaken to your knees.
Am enthralled by the tapping of a foot.
The fidgeting of a hand.
All of the harvest…
Often more than one can stand.
Do your voices take you?
They take me.
Oft, times, where I do not want to be.
My trunk speaks a troublesome mind.
And, yet, my feet travel differently.
The insight is human.
Though, anxiety bleeds and broods.
Sun wake the days.
But the plummet?
Sun drenched with tartness.
No color rule the day.
Just strain from the gray.
The reality of disorder still a slippery slope.
And, a bite for the sweetest fruit.
Thus, anxious are the bruised at the bottom of a wooden barrel.
Crowds will gather.
Ripe for the picking.
Tender the juices that corrode core’s marrow.