The fight remains in the hand tossed rubble and rubbish.
Hope…in the ache that wakes.
Not paradise up close and focus tight.
But by innate tapestry under the sun’s light.
No treading a path beyond fine.
The superfluous for the mind.
Lungs of the Mother…
I stand outside your broken and burning archway with ignorant charity in hand.
In exchange…we have replaced your inclusive welcoming with fiery threats.
As an accomplice, how many promises have I made…purposeful gluttonous lies?
I hear your rasp and rattles off an empty oxygen tank.
Breathing toxic-ly I tend to forget, forget, forget.
With the timbers of your heart ablaze…soon all I will remember is death, death, death.
Tell me true,
what is it that you feel?
Does a passerby…shower hurt your sense and sensibility?
Do the clouds above pad your nobility?
What a different world…when walking into someone else’s words.
Some spend a natural lifetime looking for answers.
Lifting every immobile boulder.
Each knowing in the precious present…what we get is older.
In the heart and the head.
In the lily and the pond.
In the here and beyond.
What beauty can be…
a lone mushroom
a barren tree
or some ragged weeds.
Mother and her nature do not judge my scars…
skinned lines that carried me so far.
Nor am I aware of discretions while I scamper towards her majesty.
I can stammer my words of poetry
often loose like a noose.
Yet, Mother and her nature…decide my needs.