Servitude is not the calling.
To ask…
would be to no avail.
The pernicious pig,
the muddied mare,
the calamitous cow.
Free of strings.
And, monetary weights.
Out to pasture by virtue of enlightenment.
Green, gold…
Only sullied by contentment.
There are eccentricities about time that many… will never get.
There is a mortal need to have it all around.
Thou, it is injured and too tightly wound.
It may surface that there are brisk critics regaled for being too passionately black.
And, those willing to make the ‘devil’s pact.’
As followed, before, the ache arrived, minutes filled the air.
As original as, the snowflakes in which we place our grateful cares.
Mind over the matters of time.
The pain of neutral.
No joy from fast forward or rewind.
For myself, revelations, on a dusky December day,
That, I too, conceded,
from the comfort of living in the in between.
There had been a frozen dust to the air.
It covered my tracks…
Or, considerate me…
I found myself not lost…for I never looked back.
“Catastrophic and immobile. Delicate and nomadic. Impaled in blue hue. Red distended light. Black shafts that invade plight. White shards that lay pictured in radiance. Reflections grazing in the slide show of my mind. Elemental homage to photos of time.”
it has been awhile since I walked a mile in her shoes
this ritual silence has blown away on November wind
uttering the howls of change and broken ceilings
on the ash and cedar decadence and delight on turns of day and night
…
it has been awhile since I walked a mile in her shoes
to feel the depth of season
to withstand all of foliage debris
to be in a place of all the beauty I can see
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