Nothing More to Miss

There are moments I cannot touch…out of fear from being.

Dark, gloved hands, reaching out in leather and lace, pulling me from the sanguine times.

Floors that drop without provocation.

Shifting forest that call loud and severe.

And, yet I find, there is no voice.

Puppets and clowns amassed in bad intent.

This are the times that love and loss have lent.

I miss you when there is nothing more to miss.

I fall in love with you, each illness, each sorrow, again and again.

In the seconds that backtrack from past to present and present to future.

You are what love to be.

You are my friend.

Don’t Panic

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.

Illness

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?’

 

Where is the Fault?

What is this?

Ugliness in the trees.

Unsightly, gait to a walk.

Hailstorms of purposeful distort.

No matter the purpose, I cannot transcend.

No matter the discourse, in and around, the bend.

No matter the purpose, there is no pretense.

 

Aghast, I speak to the spirit inside me.

‘Come along!  Find another!  Let me be!’

There can be no prose…

faultless enough.

No lyric bold enough.

That wanders to the depth that pain can go.

 

No matter the purpose, I cannot transcend.

No matter the discourse, in and around, the bend.

No matter the purpose, there is no pretense.

 

Edie

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!’imageedit_9_9125653281